American Horror Story: Clue
by NickMiller
Summary: [Based on the board game and film] Mayhem, mystery, and a murder most foul. Nine partygoers will soon become pawns in someone else's board game when their host is brutally murdered. Join the investigation as the police try to figure out the answer to the question: Who killed Mr. Boddy?
1. Cast Billing

**Main Leads:**

Frances Conroy as Mrs. Peacock

Ian McShane as Colonel Mustard

Kathy Bates as Mrs. White

Denis O'Hare as Professor Plum

James Cromwell as Reverend Green

With Danny Huston as Mr. Boddy

And Angela Bassett as Miss Scarlett

**Supporting Leads:**

Jessica Lange as Miss Peach

Dylan McDermott as Monsieur Brunette

Patti LaBelle as Madame Rose

Fredric Lehne as Sergeant Grey

**Minor Leads:**

Chloe Sevigny as Detective Grey

Matt Ross as Detective Dove

Finn Wittrock as Pete Plum

Mark Englehardt as Jeeves

Grace Gummer as Magenta

Mare Winningham as Mrs. Meadow-Brook

John Carroll Lynch as Mr. Meadow-Brook


	2. Episode 1: Scarlet Fever

"You called us, sir?"

A stack of files were dropped onto a table.

Gillian Grey stood with her arms folded against her chest, staring at the sergeant seated on the opposing side of the table. Saying that she wasn't in a pleasant mood right now was somewhat of an understatement, having been woken up from an urgent call from the sergeant at three in the morning telling her to just 'get down here stat'. As it turned out, her partner, David Dove, had gotten a similar call and was there with her. Albeit piling three Dunkin Donuts onto a napkin for himself.

"Yeah, why did you call us?" David asked with a mouthful of donut. Gillian rolled her eyes and wondered just how it was that David was always able to squeeze in opportunities to snack. Even in times like these, where it seemed like the sergeant may require more than what was usually asked of them. For them to actually _prove _themselves as more than just the average detectives.

"Won't you both take a seat, detectives?" Sergeant Grey asked Gillian and David. David obeyed without question and took a seat in one of the two chairs on the front side of the table. Gillian, however, didn't move a muscle. Sergeant Grey waited for her to move, eyes fixed upon her from his seat. Gillian just stared back with a neutral expression; the two locked in some type of staring contest which confused David, who shifted his head back and forth between the sergeant and his partner.

"Gillian, stop trying to impress your dad with the tough cop act," scoffed David. Gillian whipped her head from Sergeant Gil Grey and towards David. She still wore a neutral face, but the annoyance towards her fellow detective was clear in her eyes. Gillian dragged the other chair out and turned it around to take a seat.

Propping her chin against her fist, Gillian steadied herself and leaned forward. "I'm not trying to impress anybody," she insisted, making sure to add, "Especially not Papa."

"Well you aren't impressing me by calling your dad 'Papa', that's for sure." David commented.

"Would you two stop bickering like a couple of children?" Gil demanded, thereby silencing David and Gillian immediately. He spread the stack of files out and nudged them towards the two detectives. David and Gillian each retrieved one folder for themselves and opened them, finding assortments of photographs and paperwork among other things.

".Two nights ago, on Halloween, a murder occurred right outside of this city," Gil began to explain until Gillian cut him off, "But this is Detroit: Plenty of murders happen here every day. What makes this one any different?"

"This one's a rich guy," was Gil's simple answer to Gillian's question. David snorted, but his laughter at the response was not shared nor appreciated by the Greys.

"...Well, of course this guy has to be rich." David muttered.

"What's his name?" Gillian asked, trying to move things along.

"The victim's name is Robert Boddy, known to those close to him as Bobby. He was a business man, C.E.O of something or another. He was whacked off at a party he was hosting at his mansion. Cause of death unknown at this time, but that's not the big question at hand." Gil explained on.

"What is the big question then, Sergeant Grey?" Gillian asked her dad again, which made him grin ever so slightly.

"The question you two are going to figure out is who killed Bobby Boddy?"

–

Miss Scarlett sat in the empty room with her arms folded against her maroon gown and one foot down tapping impatiently against the tiled floor. She had been 'escorted' to this dirty excuse for a police station three hours ago and she had been waiting for someone to finally come on out and get this over with. It was an insult, really, to accuse of her of such a crime and then hold off on her opportunity to explain her side of the story. The _true _side of the story. But Miss Scarlett knew from the moment the paramedics came to take his body away that some close-minded people would try to blame her for everything. And why shouldn't they? After all, she was known for her knack to, shall we say, entice the weaker sex.

And why wouldn't anybody who knew that little tidbit believe that Miss Scarlett was capable of murdering her own fiance?

"Hey!"

Miss Scarlett looked as the door opened and David and Gillian entered. David smiled and held his hand to wave to Miss Scarlett while Gillian just pulled out one of the wooden chairs and leaned onto it with both arms.

"You're Sabrina Scarlett, right?" David asked in a cheerful tone with a matching inappropriate smile.

Miss Scarlett stared at the two detectives: One acting like a child meeting a friend of his parents for the first time and the other trying to act as if she were Matthew McConaughey. She had only shared a room with these two for less than half a minute and one thing was already abundantly clear:

"I need a cigarette," said Miss Scarlett, retrieving one from her burgundy pocketbook along with a black lighter. She lit it up and took a sharp inhale, blowing the smoke out towards the two detectives.

"Can she smoke in here, Gillian?" David asked Gillian, obviously confused.

"No one in this building is allowed to smoke any substance under any circumstance and may only do so outside the property." Gillian recited from memory. Miss Scarlett took another puff and leaned forward, blowing it at Gillian's face. The detective did not shift an inch away from what was exhaled in her direction. She moved over from the chair onto the table and gave Miss Scarlett her best stare down.

"Sabrina Scarlett, you know why you're here, right?" Gillian asked the suspect in a stern voice.

"Why wouldn't I, detective? I have only been here for hours waiting for you and your partner to finish whatever it was that you two were doing for those hours. All while I took time out of my life that could have been spent _grieving _my fiance." Miss Scarlett retorted.

"Look, we just need to know if you killed him or not, did you do it, Sabrina?" David asked, taking his own stab at interrogation. Both Miss Scarlett and Gillian stared at him in what looked like a mixture of disgust and 'Really?'. Miss Scarlett sighed and rubbed the temples of her forehead with her right hand before setting it back on the arm of her chair.

"How about I tell you both everything from the start? So Tweedle Dumb won't make a fool of himself again?" Miss Scarlett suggested to Gillian.

"Hey! Standing right here!" David yelped at Miss Scarlett. A silent moment passed, before he spoke up again, "...Go on, though. I'll transcribe what you have to say."

"Good," Miss Scarlett commented upon as David sat down and retrieved a notepad. Gillian looked as her partner scribbled down Miss Scarlett's name in his cursive handwriting and both looked over to the suspect now, waiting for her to begin.

"Start from the beginning, Miss Scarlett," requested Gillian.

–

Sabrina Scarlett dove into the pool headfirst, her hands lifted above her head in the classic swimming pose. She felt the warm water wash over her form before she flung her arms and kicked her legs into and against it. That calm feeling was something she always appreciated. And it was all thanks to this pool. It was one of her most favorite things about the new penthouse she shared with her lover. Sabrina had always wanted a pool and now she had one of her very own. And she enjoyed every moment she spent in there. Whether it be the laps she swam every morning to the skinny dipping she and Bobby would do on the climax of certain date nights. Sabrina continued to swim until she had finished ten laps to and from both ends of the pool. Once she finished, she turned onto her back and floated in the water. Her muscles tingled and only added to the sensations going through her head in this moment. This was truly bliss.

Leaving the pool behind her, Sabrina dried her dark brown hair with a pale red towel. She minced towards the living room and tossed her towel aside, placing her hands on her hips as she looked for her fiance, whom was bantering with somebody over his phone.

"Great, great. And remember you can bring a plus one," Bobby spoke into the phone. He looked up and saw Sabrina, who held out a finger motioning for him to come over to where she stood. "Uh, gotta go, Mort!"

Sabrina was grinning from ear to ear as Bobby ended the conversation and set his phone on the glass coffee table. He moved toward her and embraced the waist of her white swimming suit with his arms. Bobby glanced down at Sabrina's swim suit and grinned at the bright red cherries that adorned it.

"Your suit's making me hungry, Sabrina," said Bobby as he shifted his gaze back to her face.

"Hungry for some fruit?" Sabrina guessed; Bobby shook his head against her suggestion.

"Hungry for something different," was his answer. Now it was Sabrina's turn to wrap her arms around her man as he dived in for a kiss. They kept this on for a while, even backing against one of the black sofas in the room until they heard a knocking from elsewhere. Bobby and Sabrina paused, both trying to figure out if it was a random occurrence or something more. Sabrina leaned back towards Bobby before the knocking resumed, louder and longer.

"You get the door. Let me change into something more appropriate." Sabrina instructed Bobby. He did as he was asked, while the woman in white scattered to her and Bobby's bedroom. She opened her overstuffed closet and retrieved a vermilion robe lying on the ground She pulled the soft cotton sleeves over her arms and tied it together with the appropriate sash. She stopped and gave a fleeting glance over at the small mirror placed on the desk at the other side of the bedroom. Sabrina backtracked to the desk as she remembered something she had left there before going to the pool: Her engagement ring. Sliding it on her ring finger, she turned and saw Bobby waiting for her.

"Well, who is it?" Sabrina asked.

"I think you need to see this." Bobby told her, his teeth grazing his lip Sabrina rolled her eyes and lumbered past Bobby and into the main room where she found that Bobby was wrong, and that this was someone that she didn't need or _want _to see in the slightest.

"_SABRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINA!_"

Sabrina was petrified as Portia Peach screeched like a bat with her arms waving out. She ran over to force Sabrina into a hug. Sabrina could hear Bobby laugh like an ass while she struggled to push Portia away from her. How she hated the humor he could take from misfortunes like these. The excited blonde woman let go of her after one whole minute but still held onto her arms with her hands.

"Sabrina, I can't believe you're engaged! And look at the lucky man," Portia interjecting, now ogling Sabrina's man, "Looks like you're a lucky lady too."

Sabrina smoldered at Portia while she and Bobby laughed together.

"Why don't you introduce me to this beautiful stranger?" Bobby asked Sabrina, making Portia's smile grow.

"She ain't a stranger." Sabrina growled.

"I'm Sabrina's sister! Portia Peach, a pleasure to meet you!" Portia introduced, holding out her arm for a friendly handshake from Bobby. Instead, Bobby took her hand and pulled it forward, planting a kiss on her hand. Portia giggled like a schoolgirl; Sabrina scoffed at the gesture. Portia wasn't anyone worth impressing, just some little girl from backwoods Pennsylvania. And, may Sabrina add, not a good little girl to boot.

"So, what are you doing here?" Sabrina asked in an attempt to speed this meeting along.

Portia raised a finger and explained, "Well, you told me about this fine new man of yours and I just thought I'd stop by for a few days to help you celebrate! I'll take you both out for drinks tonight! My treat!"

Bobby and Sabrina glanced at each other, Bobby raised an eyebrow; Sabrina groaned. She couldn't believe what she was about to do, but she did it regardless, "Bobby and I are hosting a shindig tonight at his mansion...Would you care to join us?"

Portia gasped as if she had just been told that Sabrina had somehow gotten pregnant despite having had her tubes tied since Clinton was in office."That's fantastic!" She squealed in the same volume a barnyard animal would squeal getting killed in a slaughterhouse.

"Well, thank you, Portia," complimented Bobby, well aware of the smolder Sabrina was giving him.

"Yes, thank you...Now, let's go out for a while, just us ladies. Get you a proper dress for tonight." Sabrina decided, already heading back to her room to change into a different outfit. Sabrina undid her robe and pulled it off from her frame. The white swim suit with the cherry print soon followed. She ignored Bobby's presence as he followed her inside, until he began to speak to her.

"You never told me you had a sister, Sabrina." Bobby told Sabrina, who scoffed at him again.

"She ain't my sister." Sabrina snarled.

She continued to speak her mind while opening her closet door, "That one's just somebody that I used to know from home. Somebody who decided to send me an email out of the blue for the first time in years. And somehow that made her think she could show up at our door like she's the queen of my castle. You want to know why I never mentioned her to you? It is because she, along with the rest of the ghosts from my past, are as good as dead to me."

Dress after dress was pushed aside until Sabrina found one to her liking. She pulled the straps off of the coat hanger and tossed it down. Moving quickly, Sabrina dipped her legs and tugged the cerise dress onto her frame. Without looking at Bobby, she gave him an order, "Zip me up."

With no complaint, Bobby moved behind Sabrina and pulled the zipper to the dress up. She pulled the two straps onto her shoulders. He placed his head on her right shoulder and whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry you hate your past so much, Sabrina. I don't think you can run away from who are you, especially if it's personified in the flesh like this."

This didn't do him any favors. Sabrina trudged away from him and to the desk at the end of the room. She pulled out a drawer and retrieved a tube of lipstick. She plucked the lid off and put the tip on her lips, painting them blood orange. She stared at her reflection in the mirror placed on the desk table and said to Bobby, "I think we're going to have to agree to disagree."

"Now that I can agree with." Bobby nodded. Sabrina began to step away from Bobby, off to attend to Portia, but stopped when Bobby mentioned one more thing, "By the way, I noticed you found your engagement ring."

Sabrina tilted her head back and grinned at Bobby, "I only took it off so I could swim without the fear of losing it," she clarified.

"It's a deep pool you have." Sabrina said as she moved closer to Bobby. She put a cusp on his cheek and whispered to him, "And if I survive dealing with Portia today, I'll let you swim in something else that's _deep _tonight."

–

"How do I look, sissy?"

Sabrina looked as Portia opened her dressing room door and showed off the latest dress she was trying on: A skin-tight neon orange dress with a matching dress vest and box hat.

"Please change out of that before anyone sees you in it." Sabrina demanded.

Portia pursed her lips and took off the orange hat, "I think I look classy, like Jacqueline Kennedy," she insisted.

"Jackie O wouldn't be caught dead in an outfit that looks like a pumpkin took a shit on you. It may be a Halloween party, but that doesn't mean you don't have to dress the part." Sabrina critiqued.

"You are such a square, sister." Portia dismissed as she took off the vest that came with the dress. She shut the door and started changing out into another of the dresses she had selected for herself. Sabrina tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Portia to change dresses. A few minutes later, Portia reopened the door to show her half-sister her latest outfit: Another neon orange dress with enormous puffy sleeves and a matching veil.

"...Just try on the dress that I picked for you," was Sabrina's response. Portia frowned until she looked back inside the changing room and then back outside at Sabrina.

"Sorry, I have to take this call," said Portia before she slammed the door shut. Sabrina wished she could have mustered a bit of curiosity at who was calling her friend. But it was Portia, and she couldn't care less about that little girl's life. She just stood against the wall and tapped her foot against the carpet. Waiting for the woman she was being forced to entertain to emerge. All he wanted was to be done with her for at least a little while. But, of course, said waiting was taking her longer than expected. Sabrina checked her phone: It was only about three. To Sabrina, however, it was starting to feel like an eternity.

Eventually the door to the dressing room slowly cracked open. Sabrina awaited for Portia to return, but to no avail.

"Let me see you, Portia," Sabrina prodded, forcing the door open to see her. Portia was pacing back and forth in the cream orange dress she had selected for her. Sabrina managed to crack a smile at the sight of Portia in her dress. Just as she predicted, Portia actually looked like she was an adult ready to mingle tonight. Instead of whatever JonBenet Ramsey look she was trying to work before. Portia stopped her pacing and placed her hand on her chest, her eyes starting to water.

"What's wrong?" Sabrina asked.

"I had this..._friend_ in town that I was hoping to meet tonight, I invited him to come with us to the party but...He wants to ditch me...like I'm some piece of trash!" Portia cried out, tears gushing out of her eyes. Sabrina didn't react to this new nugget of information, she wouldn't. Otherwise she would have just upset Portia even more, and the woman was already a big enough nuisance as it was. Portia dabbed her tears with her hands and whispered, "...I like this dress though...The one that you picked for me...I'll take it."

"That's what I like to hear," Sabrina told her.

–

"Can you just get to recounting the party? I don't think all of this is worth going through," David tried to insist as Sabrina finished recounting the little shopping adventure with her sister.

"Don't be rude, Dove." Gillian scolded; Sabrina held her hand and waved as a motion for Gillian to stand down.

"It's alright, I'm not one for endless blabbing myself. Especially when it concerns the likes of those such as Portia Peach. Let me just push fast forward and skip to the beginning of the engagement party." Sabrina decided.

"I thought you said it was a Halloween party, Miss Scarlett." Gillian pointed out.

"It was both: A party to celebrate All Hallow's Eve, which was something Bobby did every year. And it was also to officially celebrate and announce our engagement." Sabrina clarified for the detectives. She couldn't help but overlook David and his writing, circling the word 'Lies'.

"You can call me a liar, but when you catch whoever is behind the murder of my dearly departed, you'll know I'm telling the truth." Sabrina insisted; David scribbled said word out as quickly as he had been circling it.

"Now was I at?...Oh yeah, the party! It started at eight thirty that night..." Sabrina resumed recounting.

–

The woman in the crimson dress had her back against the wall and an empty wine glass in her grasp as she watched the party. The room was filled with all the people who ran in her social circle, though Sabrina didn't feel up for any chit chat with them them right now. She needed another drink or two before she felt up to that. Shifting her way through the crowd, she went to the table with the drinks on it and found Portia nursing a glass of champagne filled to the brim.

"Who are all these people?" Portia asked before taking a loud gulp of her drink.

"What you see here is upper class Detroit. And it's worse than you think," was Sabrina'a answer. She set her empty glass down and picked up a full one to replace it. Sabrina left her half-sister alone and set out to find Bobby, wherever he was. Dodging some curious souls, Sabrina wandered until she didn't found him, in the midst of a conversation with a couple of others. One of whom Sabrina recognized. She walked over next to Bobby just as he and the other man shared a hearty laugh.

"Would you careto introduce me to these friends of yours?" Sabrina requested.

Bobby stood back and held out his hand to the man in a dark green suit and tie, "This is my old friend, Reverend Gideon Green. Gideon, this is my fiancee Miss Sabrina Scarlett."

Gideon and Sabrina extended their arms and gave each other a firm handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, I was just having a chat with Bobby about a recent stop on my campaign tour. I assume you know about my campaign to be elected for Mayor of Detroit?"

"Of course, Reverend, whenever I watch television, I can't go five minutes without seeing one of your commercials." Sabrina affirmed. Gideon flashed Sabrina a warm smile, flattered by her statement. He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but was interrupted by the woman next to him.

"Aren't you going to introduce _me_ to your fiancee?" asked a woman in a blue dress holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a wine spritzer in the other.

"Ah, my mistake, Sabrina, this is-" Bobby began to introduce.

The woman cut him off, "Petunia Peacock. It's a pleasure."

Sabrina reluctantly shook Mrs. Peacock's hand, cigarette holder and all, the handshake between the two much limper than the one moment ago. Petunia leered and inquired, "Would you two care to tell me how you met and fell in love?"

Bobby chuckled; Sabrina didn't. "Well, it's kind of a funny story, actually," he started to recall.

"One that would be better suited not for a party like this, but dinner rather. Just the four of us." Sabrina insisted.

"Oh, don't be such a pussyfoot! Won't you enlighten my husband and I with the tale of a romance rooted from lust to love?" Petunia goaded.

Gideon elbowed Petunia gently, "Don't egg her on, Petunia. We can always schedule dinner with her and Bobby for another night."

"I need another drink anyways," Sabrina decided, which made Petunia guffaw.

"But you already have a drink. You are such a _hog_; Did you know you were choosing such a _fine hog _to marrywhen you proposed_, _Robert?" Petunia asked. Sabrina just ignored the old bag and charged away, almost knocking into somebody as she made sure make enough distance between her and Petunia Peacock as possible.

–

"Sabrina? Sabrina Scarlett?"

Sabrina looked up from her phone and smiled slyly at who was trying to get her attention. Thank goodness it wasn't Portia or Petunia, but rather someone whose company she could tolerate. Even if she didn't know this woman as well as she would have liked.

"Madame Rose, glad you could make it," Sabrina greeted her acquaintance. She patted the chair next to hers and Rochelle Rose sat down on the spot. "How's the television gig going for you?"

Rochelle smiled at Sabrina's prompt to converse, "It's going great, I just inked a new deal to keep on predicting people's futures for another five years in syndicated television. I mean, outside of Detroit, it's just going to be broadcast from midnight to one on the Fox channel, but I figure it's better to air on Fox than ABC."

"Amen," agreed Sabrina. The two let out a uproarious joint laughter until a loud shout .

"_YOU...__**BITCH.**_"

Sabrina and Rochelle's ears perked at the loud outburst. Especially Sabrina's since she recognized that voice. That stupid Portia was making a spectacle of herself, which was the opposite of what Sabrina both wanted and needed at this moment.

"Excuse me, apparently there's one hot mess that needs to be put." Sabrina told Rochelle, standing up and immediately making a beeline away to try to find Portia.

"Let me help." Rochelle called out after Sabrina, gripping the ends her pink dress as she followed after Sabrina. The two ran over to the table with the drinks where Sabrina had last seen Portia. And she was there alright. Sabrina and Rochelle found her in the middle of some type of argument with Petunia.

"Don't touch me, I'll sue!" Petunia snapped at Portia, who sneered at the older woman.

"Well la dee dah. Go ahead and sue me. You can even lock me up and throw away the key. All of that won't change the fact that _you_ are an evil bitch!" Portia spat at Petunia, who gasped at her comment.

"Mrs. Peacock, let me take care of my friend. I apologize for what she's said and probably done to you," Sabrina said in an attempt to smooth things over with Petunia, who gasped at her admission.

"This woman is your friend?" Petunia gasped, shaking her head in fluster, "I am frankly quite shocked that you call this creature your friend!"

"Believe me, Mrs. Peacock, so am I," Sabrina agreed. That last comment made Portia grimace at Sabrina. The blonde grabbed one of the remaining glasses on the table and tossed the drink at Sabrina.

"WHY DO YOU TREAT ME LIKE I'M A _CHILD_?" Portia howled.

"I'm treating you like a child because you insist on acting like one." Sabrina insisted in a calm, yet snarky tone.

"I am fifty nine years old, when are you going to realize that?"

"I know your age, just like I know that you are drunk as a skunk. You need to leave."

"You want me to leave? That's rich, coming from you."

Sabrina shook her head at Portia and gave her a hearty laughter, "You really do crave being the center of attention, don't you?"

Portia reciprocated that grin with a nastier one as she swayed closer to her and told her, "At least my family doesn't hate me. Or is there another reason your family calls you their _Scarlett Sheep_."

Sabrina laughed at Portia's attempt to get under her skin. All she could do was just laugh, "You are as pathetic as you are drunk."

"Oh, shut up." Portia whined loudly. She tried to stomp even closer to her, but instead quite literally spiraled out of control. Portia grunted as she fell and crash landed on the table with the drinks and glasses on it, shattering and cracking a good number of them.

"You need to get out of here. Let me help you," Sabrina told Portia. Reluctantly, she knelt down next to her and flung one of Portia's arms over her back and pulled her onto her feet. The other woman weighed down on Sabrina, but she had to be taken away regardless. The duo moved away from Petunia and the others who had amassed to witness Portia's intoxicated outburst. They had seen enough.

–

"Sabrina, why is it taking so long to get up the stairs?" Portia asked as she and Sabrina stumbled onto the upper level of the mansion. Sabrina didn't bother to answer the question as she guided her down the front hallway and peered into the rooms. She passed three of them until she found an actual bedroom. One that was quite spiffy, if Sabrina could say so herself. She guided Portia over to the king-sized bed and pulled up the jet black blanket so the younger woman could lay down.

"Now you lay your head down and try to get some sleep." Sabrina told the drunk woman as the drunk laid her form against the dark sheets and pressed her cheek against the pillow.

"That's what I need...some sleep..." Portia mumbled to herself as she quickly passed out on the bed like a baby being put down for a nap. Sabrina sat until she knew the woman was sound asleep, signaled by her soft snoring. She pulled the black blanket over Portia's slumbering body to make sure she would be comfortable when she woke up. Sabrina began to walk away from the bed when something caught her eye. She slowly moved towards an open wooden chest on top of a black dresser across from the door. She put her hands onto the sides of the chest and pulled it into her eyesight.

It was a set of silverware, six pieces. And one was missing: A knife.

–

"One of the photographs of the body showed a stab wound on the body," Gillian affirmed; Sabrina nodded condescendingly.

"I think I was on the road to implying that the missing knife was a murder weapon, detective...And _thanks_ for reminding me of what my fiance looked like when I found him," Sabrina told her, dripping in passive aggression.

David raised an eyebrow at Sabrina's latest statement, "Could you elaborate on what you mean by that, please?"

"What is there to elaborate on? After I tucked her into that bed, I found my Bobby in the hallway..."

Sabrina closed the chest after she discovering the missing knife. She dropped the chest back onto the dresser and turned around. She disregarded the open chest and the missing silverware as just an oddity, that perhaps Bobby or someone else had lost or misplaced the knife and no one had replaced it. Yes, that seemed like as good enough an explanation as any to Sabrina. She entered the hallway and looked to her left and then to her right. She saw Bobby, who was moving quite oddly.

"Bobby?" She called after him, moving towards the man. But he seemed to be moving away from her as fast as she moved towards him. Unlike the missing knife, this was something Sabrina couldn't overlook. She quickened her pace, almost running towards her fiance until he reached the railing hovering above the lower floor. Sabrina watched in horror as Bobby fell over the railing, his body plummeting down, down down...

"_**BOBBY?**_"

She clenched the railing with her life, poking her head over just in time to see Bobby crash into one of the tables, knocking all of the different food and snacks off and around.

_"__**OH NOOOOOOOO!**__"_ Sabrina wailed at the sight. She threw caution to the wind and kicked her maroon heels off so she could charge down the staircase. Functioning on adrenaline, Sabrina ran and ran, her bare feet slapping step after step. When she finally felt her feet slam against the ground, she sprinted to the scene. Shoving a stranger aside, Sabrina knelt down over the broken table and glass and turned Bobby over. He was still breathing, but he was horribly injured from the fall. There was blood everywhere, from the fall and from what appeared to be other injuries sustained. Including from the knife shoved into his neck...

"Bobby..." Sabrina whimpered as she rubbed his cheeks. Her Bobby, her poor, poor Bobby. The couple stared at each other; Bobby opened his lips. Sabrina had always thought that Bobby had the most beautiful lips. She heard him breathe heavily, as if he were trying to find the right words to say to her. "Talk to me, please," she pleaded to him.

But in seconds, Bobby closed his lips and dropped his head. His breathing stopped.

Sabrina screamed wordlessly. She crouched over her fiance's dead body, burying her face from reality. A reality without her lover. She couldn't believe what had happened, it seemed like a nightmare she would usually wake up from. Losing Bobby was a truthfully not uncommon component of her worst dreams, one of her personal hells. But what was it that her mother had told her when she was younger? When she first learned that her parents were splitting up? _Dreams usually didn't come true, Sabrina_. Except this one did...

Sabrina felt a hand placed upon her back. She whipped her head upward defensively and saw a man with a comforting smile and a bright gold tie. She slowly crouched up, taking in the man's form without averting her stare into his deep blue eyes. He had to have known Bobby, otherwise he wouldn't be as patient with her otherwise. Sabrina's mouth quivered and she spread her arms around the stranger's body, leaning her head down onto his shoulder as she let herself weep again for the loss of her love. She felt his big arms embrace her softly, with one hand patting her dark hair. She couldn't help but smile. What the kindness of strangers could make her do.

–

"Do you know who this man was, Miss Scarlett?" David asked Sabrina as he finished writing down her words.

Sabrina shrugged, "I believe I discovered later that he was an old friend of Bobby's...Mac or Moe or...Mort! That was his name. Mort..."

"That's interesting; do you think this Mort could have any connection with the murder?" David asked her again.

"The goddamn man _comforted_ me and you're accusing him of murder? We really _are _living in Detroit." Sabrina complained, agitation visible in every syllable.

"I'm sure Dove just wants to know in case we need to bring him down for some questioning," Gillian tried to brush aside.

"Yeah, sure," was David's agreement.

"Well, after Mort comforted me, the ambulance arrived to...take the body. I just returned home and stayed there. Until today..."

–

"Sabrina! Sabrina!"

Sabrina ignored the latest pleas for attention of her friend. All she had the energy for was pressing her face down onto the black case covering one of the pillows of the bed she used to share. Portia had been incredibly bothersome since that night where Bobby was taken from her, always trying to corral her into doing some bonding exercise to get her mind off of the matter at hand. But she refused to indulge her, Portia was the type who would use any excuse to bring the spotlight onto herself. She was probably only doing this so she could pat herself on the back later for being sucha good friend. Sabrina wasn't going to give her a single bit of what she wanted, not one bit.

"Go away, Portia!" Sabrina yelled at the woman outside her door.

"There are people here who want to talk to you. You need to come out, please!" Portia insisted.

Sabrina pressed the ends of the pillow over her ears and bellowed, "WILL YOU JUST LEAVE ME _ALONE_?"

"Sabrina, the police are here!"

Now that was one way to get her attention. Pushing herself off of the groove on her bed that Bobby had apparently formed over time, Sabrina reached out for her robe, wrapping it around her slender frame as she opened the door.

–

"And now here I am," Sabrina scoffed.

"Here we are." Gillian concurred.

"You got my story, can I go now? I've been here for over six hours already."

"Did you kill Bobby Boddy though?" David asked her pointedly.

Sabrina stared down at the detective, holding a neutral facial expression. Slowly her chest began to move in a strange manner. David thought she on the verge of crying. He was about to offer a tissue. That ceased when she started to let out a deep, throaty cackle that caught both detectives off guard.

"You _really _think after all that I shared with you that I would have killed that man?" Sabrina almost hissed at the pair in front of her. "Let me let you in on a little secret: Rarely, have I truly loved anyone in this world. Sure, I have had plenty of men fall head over heels for me, but me? I never loved any of them...Not until I met him. Sure, we had our ups and downs, but there was no funny business going on with me. If you think for one second that I was digging for gold, then you're even stupider than I thought. You think you can march into my life, insert yourself into my grieving process? And for what? For no reason other to pin the scarlet letter on me? I told you everything you need to know. I'm not saying another word, you make me _sick._"

Sabrina stood up and hoofed it right past the duo that had interrogated her. The door swung open as she left them. Gillian and David plodded behind her. Stopping as she paraded out the front door, not even stopping to say one last word.

"Well, way to go." Gillian scoffed at David.

"How was I supposed to know she would react like this?"

"Common sense, maybe?"

David bit his lip and remained silent for a moment until he asked, "Do you think Miss Scarlett killed him?"

"I don't know," was Gillian's initial answer. She looked away from her partner, considering. Thinking. "I think what's more important is that _she _believes she didn't murder him."

–

Sabrina tapped her foot as she waited for the cab she called to come. She hated being alone in the night like this, especially in this city. Even if she hadn't lived here for very long, she knew all about the horror stories that came with Detroit A woman like her alone was easy prey for some bastard to come and do what he wanted with her. She had to invest in more than a pink can of pepper spray because, what could she do with that? Give them a skin rash? Lucky for her, the cab got here before someone else did. She quickly minced over to the cab, opening one of the back doors and sliding inside the automobile.

After she closed the door, Sabrina poked her head next to her driver and told him where to take her. Once he started to drive, she sat back against the cushioned seat and let out a large exasperated sigh. She knew what she had to do now, and it brought an old saying to mind: No rest for the wicked. Sabrina retrieved her phone and clicked through her contacts, settling on one to dial up and call. And then, she waited until she heard a response on the other end.

"It's me. I need to meet with you...It's about Bobby."


	3. Episode 2: Yellow Belly

"Our interrogation of Miss Scarlett last night didn't give us any leads on the case," David told Gil quite bluntly.

"That's not exactly true, Dove." Gillian scolded, almost reaching out to smack her partner over the head. She stopped herself short, minding her father's presence. She told the sergeant, "Miss Scarlett gave us a name, somebody I think we could bring in for questioning. It was someone she met named Mort."

"Interesting." Gil commented, looking down as he twiddled his thumbs together.

Gillian scowled, "Are you listening, Sargent? We do have a lead, but we only know it's somebody the victim knew named Mort. I'm sure my partner and I would be willing to take a look into who it is."

"Mort...Wait a minute, do you mean Mortimer? As in _Mortimer Mustard_?" Gil asked. The two detectives both stared without a clue to whom Gil was referring to. He sighed and expounded, " Mortimer Mustard, he was in the army for fifteen years. He owns and runs the Detroit Historical Museum, it's a big deal."

"What kind of big deal?" David asked Gil.

"Well, he showcases war memorabilia" Gil quickly answered, "It's the second biggest war museum after the one for the Tuskegee Airmen troop. Third, if you wanna throw in Fort Wayne."

"Is there anyway you could get us a sit down with him?...If it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, of course." Gillian requested, hesitating at what she was asking from her father.

Gil laughed briskly, "Just go over to the museum and meet with him tomorrow. Work something out for yourself. You don't need me to do everything for you, right?"

Gillian glared at her father, annoyed with his decision. Her silent glare was interrupted when David leaned over and told her, "I think he wants us to schedule the sit down oursel-"

"I _know _what Papa said!" She retorted loudly at her partner.

–

"Are you ready to turn back time and and dive head first into our city's history?"

"Yes!" cried the group of third grade students in front of him. They had come for the free tour with their teachers and assigned chaperones that was offered once every year. Mortimer Mustard grinned as he waved the group inside, adjusting the golden tie that was a part of his old war uniform. He pushed the metal door to the museum open, allowing for the class to skip inside. Mort grinned at the adorable little ragamuffins. He had always wanted children of his own: A son and a daughter. But, sadly, his service to his country had made that impossible. A rupture to his johnson that left him infertile, to be exact. Still, one of Mort's biggest regrets in life wasn't at least adopting. It was too late for even that, though. He was far too old to take care of a child now.

"Excuse me!"

Mort turned his attention towards a pair wearing matching gray trench coats. The duo marched towards him, well, the woman was marching. The man was sort of stumbling around behind her.

"Excuse us, but are you Mortimer Mustard?" asked the woman.

"Yes, I am, but I'm afraid I can't chat right now, I'm preoccupied."

"Mr. Mustard, I am detective Gillian Grey, this is my partner detective David Dove, we'd like to bring you somewhere else for some questioning,"

Mort stared at them, his nerves starting to get the better of him. Although why, he could not say for certain. Why couldn't they have come when he closed up the place for the night? Or at least after this tour was done for the school kids? Channeling his worries, he turned away from the detectives and tried to tell them, "I'm sorry. I have a prior commitment and the children might not understand if I leave all of a sudden. Can this wait?"

"It involves the murder of Bobby Boddy," David blurted out.

And that was what left Mort aghast where he stood. _Bobby Boddy. _They wanted to know about Bobby. Well, they had made their point of urgency loud and clear. Mort tilted his head to face Gillian and David. "Let me get someone to fill in for me then. I'll stop by home and change into something better...Then we'll talk."

–

"So, refresh my memory, what are you two are trying to do that involves Bobby?" Mort asked the two detectives. He retrieved a cigar from a pocket inside the flaxen suit he had changed into before arriving at the station and placed it between his lips. Flicking his golden lighter's flame on, Mort took six small, quick inhales of his cigar. All before blowing a large gray cloud of smoke out of his mouth around the two in front of him.

David coughed and tried to wave some of the smoke away; Gillian just grimaced at the older man.

"You realize there is no smoking allowed in this building, don't you?" Gillian told Mort, speaking with a bluntly irked tone.

Mort laughed at her, "I fought for this country for nine years," he dismissed, "And seeing as how I'm taking time out of my schedule to be here, I think I can be allowed to smoke one cigar. _Don't you_?"

"Your service as a part of our country's troops means a lot, Mr. Mustard." David interjected, an attempt to diffuse some tension.

"If you're going to patronize me, Detective Dove, you can at least address me by something other than 'Mr. Mustard'. That sounds too stuffy for my liking." Mort requested.

"And what would you like to be addressed by?" Gillian asked.

"Well, my friends call me the Colonel," Mort commented, motioning his hands for them to get what he was hinting at..

"Well okay then, Colonel Mustard_, _here's the lowdown: We were told you were present at the murder of Bobby Boddy by a witness, is that correct or is that not correct?" Gillian drilled.

"Yes, I was present." Mort affirmed.

"We've been assigned to investigate the details of his murder, to find a killer." Gillian recited, which she followed with a proposal: "Would you be willing to help us with that, Colonel Mustard?"

Mort was honestly more than willing to help the detectives in their case. After all, if they were going to bring his good friend's murderer to justice, he would love to have a helping hand in it. He still decided to bide his time before his declaration. As he stalled them a little, he put his cigar back in his mouth and taking a long drag. He blew out more and more smoke, almost flooding the room with the stuff. Finally, he offered, "What do you want me to tell you about that night?"

"Just start from the get go: Do you remember the beginning of the day?" David clarified as he flipped open his note pad and already starting to write some details down.

"Oh, I remember. After all, how could I forget that day?" Mort began as he started his recollection of the events on the day of Bobby's murder...

–

Mort gazed at the phone on his desk intensely, wondering if he should make the call or not.

Mortimer Mustard had ventured into the private office he rented out for business dealings and proceedings for the first time in a week. When he entered the small building, he, of course, noticed the built up mail awaiting for his return. This included seven days worth of the Detroit Free Press, as he preferred to get the news from the paper instead of a computer. He supposed he was old fashioned in that respect. He went through skimming several envelopes and newspaper articles until he spotted a familiar face: _Bobby Boddy_. Mort's old buddy he met back in their army days himself, smiling in a photo with a woman he didn't recognize. Reading down, he soon knew why that picture was in the paper: It was an engagement announcement.

Even if Mort's friendship with Bobby had primarily shrunk to phone calls on holidays and birthdays, he felt it was odd that Bobby hadn't told him of his new engagement. This led him to a conundrum: Should he call Bobby or shouldn't he? He felt like now was a proper occasion...But what if Bobby didn't tell him for a reason? Mort picked the cinereal-colored phone up from the land line, but sat it down on his desk. The dial tone rung in his ears while his fingers hovered over the numbers. Mort took a deep breath and pressed down the numbers he needed to call Bobby up.

Pressing the phone up to his ears, Mort bit his tongue as he heard the ring tone. He pressed down harder and harder until he finally heard the call pick up.

"Mort?"

"Bobby?"

"Speaking,"

Mort' felt an enormous weight lift off of his back: Bobby didn't seem to be bothered by him. Or for now, at least. "Hello! How are you doing...?"

"It's only the morning, I'm just settling down before tonight."

"Oh, tonight? What do you have going on tonights, old sport?"

"...A celebration, of sorts."

"Oh? Is it about your engagement?"

"Well, part of the reason, it's that and to...How did you know I was engaged?"

Mort laughed, "You mean you weren't the one who published the announcement?"

"Oh," Mort heard him mutter along with a sigh, "I forgot about that, I sent that to the paper."

"Well...You did." Mort exclaimed.

An uncomfortable silence formed between the two men, until Mort heard Bobby suggest, "Hey, why don't you come swing by tonight? I'm having it at my other place tonight,"

"Which one? Is it the country house outside of Chicago?" Mort asked.

"No, no, no, the mansion I bought here. Remember the one I bought back in 2006?" corrected Bobby.

Mort nodded with vigor, "Yeah, I remember that one. I remember where it is now, it was quite a steal."

"Great, great. And remember you can bring a plus one," Bobby added.

Mort's face twisted at that: A plus one? A date? Suddenly, he felt that lifted weight start to press down on him again. "Of course I'll bring someone! I have someone I'm seeing al-"

"Uh...Gotta go, Mort!"

Bobby hung up. The dial tone returned and rung throughout his ears again. Mort put the dull yellow phone back in its place and pondered to himself.: How was he going to secure a date for tonight? He pushed his chair outward. Leaning over, Mort pulled the bottom desk drawer open and dug into the contents, shuffling through for one thing in particular.

"Found it!"

Like many men before him and hopefully many after him, Mort Mustard had a little black book of the conquests he had made over the years. Flipping through the pages, Mort settled on one and retrieved the phone again, punching in the numbers and resting the phone on his shoulder. Waiting for someone to pick up.

–

"I tried about three different contacts before I got one. But she had to go and make a big show about it," Mort explained to the detectives.

"And who did you took that night?" Gillian asked.

"Well, I hate to brag, but my dame? She actually made a big show about me asking her out. She _literally _made a big show out of it."

–

"Who will learn their future next?" Madame Rose called outward to the audience from her place in front of the cameras. She unfurled a blue fan and waved it in front of her face, closing her eyes and humming.

Mort watched the woman closely as she adjusted her position on the couch, crossing her legs and sitting up in the enormous pink robe adorned with magenta flowers. Her head slowly turned to where Mort was seated among the rest of the audience and her eyes opened, nearly bulging out of their sockets.

"Mortimer Mustard!"

Mort stood up, the cameras turned toward him. The people surrounding him clapped their hands for him. He side stepped by the others in his row and strode past the others down the steps and onto the stage. Madame Rose patted the spot next to her with her hand, moving it as Mort sat by her side.

"What are you going to do first, Madame? Summon a ghost from my past or present?" Mort asked.

His question elicited a big laughter from the audience and even Madame Rose herself.. She boasted, "Oh, Mortimer, I'm a _psychic_, not a medium. I can't see ghosts, just the future. In this case, your future"

Mort didn't understand why what he said was so funny, but he tried to laugh along anyways. "I guess this means a fortune for me," he muttered.

Madame Rose reached out and tried to place her hands on Mort's head. He backed away from her grasp, confused at what she was trying to do.

"Come on, Mortimer, you know I need to do a mind meld to see your future. Haven't you been watching me do my thing?" Madame Rose insisted upon.

"Here," Mort told her, grabbing her hands with his own and placing them on his face. "I just don't like being grabbed at is all," he explained.

"It's okay, Mortimer. At least now I can channel your future," Madame Rose brushed aside. She closed her eyes and hummed to herself.

"Mortimer...Mortimer, Morty, Mort...The fates tell me that...very soon..." Madame Rose droned out, pausing as she tried to gauge his future. She opened her eyes and stared Mort directly in the eyes before she told him, "You will find a new love, one where you least expect it."

Rochelle winked at Mort; the crowd exploded with response and life at her gesture.

–

"Madame Rose? How'd you bag her?" David asked Mort in awe, making Mort laugh.

"I went on a date with her, back when she was still Rochelle. Before she found her calling as a psychic, I suppose." Mort explained with only a hint of cockiness.

"Please continue with your recount, Colonel, what did you do after the taping?" Gillian asked, trying to steer things back on course.

"Aw, detective, what's wrong with a little banter to light things up?" Mort asked in an almost taunting voice.

By the look on Gillian's face, she was not interested in any 'banter', let alone from a suspect. She repeated herself, "Please continue with your recount. What did you do after you left the taping?"

Mort rolled his eyes at Gillian's persistence, "I don't know...I spent a few hours getting ready for the big date with her: Made myself fresh, loosened up with a shot of Cognac, rented a limo and off I went to her place."

–

Mort checked his watch for the third time, wondering where Rochelle could be. He had been waiting for her for over twenty minutes. What was keeping her? Usually women only kept him waiting for half that long. Not to mention this was in addition to the seven minutes he purposefully took to put off arriving to Rochelle's place, Little thing he did to avoid looking desperate in front of the fairer sex. But was all of that for naught tonight? All of this was causing Mort's stomach to twist into knots. That is, until the front door of the door was pushed open.

Out pranced Mort's lady of the evening, looking extraordinary in a long pink dress that was big enough she had to carry it in her small hands.

"I'm sorry for the lateness, Mortimer!" Rochelle called out, "There was a hold up!"

"What? You trying to use your psychic powers to see if we'd hit it off or not?" Mort joked.

Rochelle gave Mort a sly smile, "Something like that," she purred to him playfully.

The colonel opened the door to his limo, motioning for Rochelle to come inside. She strut to the car and moved inside the automobile. She finally let go of her dress once she sat down against the firm leather seat. Mort slammed the door shut before skipping off to the other door. He quickly slid inside his limo and slammed the door as he did the other. Mort slid his car key into the ignition and started the engine, the limo roaring to life.

"Hold on," Mort grunted as he leaned behind his chair, trying to reach for a bag he left in the back. "I got something for you to wear tonight."

Mort didn't see if his lovely lady reacted to that tidbit. He felt the familiar texture of the paper bag that contained his gift and he repositioned himself to face Rochelle. He handed her the bag and the psychic was still grinning as she unfurled the top of the bag and put a hand inside

"...Um..." Rochelle commented as she stared at the corsage Mort had purchased for her: It was a rose, for his Madame. The only difference was that it wasn't a typical red rose.

"I figured you would be pretty bored with wearing only red and pink roses. So, I had this one dyed black. To make it as special as you are," explained the colonel.

"Are you sure this isn't a carnation or something?" Rochelle asked.

"No, it's a rose." Mort declared.

"_Uh-huh_" She nearly growled. Mort frowned. Rochelle glanced at him and slowly her frown turned upside down. "Put it on me," she instructed Mort, holding out her wrist for him. Mort was hopeful all over again as he strapped the black flower onto her wrist. _Maybe this could be a great night after all_ Mort thought as he drove off with his date in tow to Bobby's old haunt.

–

"Now this is better than I imagined!" Rochelle declared as she and Mort took in their surroundings. Indeed, he had to admit that this was a better place than he remembered it being. Although he had only been over a small handful of times since it was only used for special occasions. Mort led Rochelle through the big crowd as he searched for one person in particular. In no time, though, Mort found who he was searching for.

"Bobby! My man!" Mort called out to Bobby, who was in the midst of a conversation with someone else.

"Hold on, Mr. Slate," Mort overhead his friend tell the guest, turning away and extending his arms out. He took the cue and embraced his old friend in a nice, tight bear hug. Bobby nudged his way out, but Mort didn't mind. The two men laughed heavily until they sighed.

"How long has it been since we last met. Face to face, I mean?" Mort asked Bobby while they both settled down.

"Think the last time was dinner last summer or spring, maybe?" Bobby tried to recall. Mort paused, also trying to remember. Or at least until Rochelle cleared her throat loud enough for him to hear.

"Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Rochelle demanded.

"Yes, who is this lovely creature, Mort?" Bobby asked, taking the psychic's hand in his own and pulling it gently to his lips, planting a kiss.

"I bet you do that move with every woman." Rochelle said with a scowl.

"Only the ones I haven't met yet," Bobby corrected, making a smile creep up on Rochelle's face.

Mort glared at his date as he properly introduced her to his old chum, "This is Rochelle, better known as TV's Madame Rose."

"Oh, don't you know my fiancee? I swear, Sabrina's told me about you before! You two met at an event, I believe. Her last name's Scarlett." Bobby revealed. Mort glared at the two, watching as it was Rochelle's turn to recall something. Unlike her, he would give her the time to remember it.

"Sabrina Scarlett, eh? Yeah, I know one of those, she yours?" Rochelle asked; Bobby nodded and Rochelle carried on, "Yeah, we've met a few times. Where is she right now?"

"She's around here somewhere, I can go get her if you'd like," offered Bobby.

"Nah, Rochelle can find herself, can't you?" Mort insisted, making that familiar scowl reappear on the woman's face.

"_Sure_. I can find her, all by myself." she told the men sourly, picking up her dress to wander off in search of Bobby's lucky lady.

With Rochelle occupied, off and away, Mort now turned his full attention to Bobby. "Sorry about that, now where were we?" He said, trying to remember their place. But as soon as he tried to, Bobby began to walk away from him, moving away from over to another couple.

"Mr. and Mrs. Meadow-Brook! So happy you could make it," Bobby greeted the couple, shaking their hands. He glanced back at Mort and quickly told him, "We'll talk more later, I promise!"

All Mort could do was give Bobby a weak little grin and just stand by himself while Bobby entertained the guests.

–

"Well, now since Bobby and Rochelle were the only people I knew on a personal basis there, I found a place for myself to spend some time with my thoughts," Mort continued to recount to the detectives.

"For how long?" Gillian asked him.

Mort shrugged and waved his hand around a little as a motion, "Not very long at first since something happened."

"_What _exactly happened?" Gillian pressed.

–

"WHY DO YOU TREAT ME LIKE I'M A _CHILD_?"

Mort wandered over to where Rochelle was standing, watching as two women argued over...something. He wasn't present for most of this argument, but Rochelle seemed to know. He tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, "What are you doing over here?"

"Sabrina and her friend are having a fight, Mortimer." Rochelle whispered to Mort, who looked at the spurring women.

"You wanna get out of here? I don't like girl drama like this," Mort whispered back to her.

Rochelle did a double take at what her date had just told her, "Excuse me, but this isn't 'girl drama'," she insisted, "This is a woman who may be on her way to the drunk tank. And Sabrina is trying to take care of her like any rational person would."

Mort shook his head, "Whatever, I just don't want you to be a part of this cat fight, let's go and maybe find Bob-"

"Let me stop you right there," Rochelle snapped at Mort, giving him her full attention now. "I have put up with _enough _from you today."

"What the hell is wrong with you, Rochelle?" Mort shouted, just as the woman in an orange dress stumbled past him and Rochelle.

The psychic shook her head, "First you call me out of the blue after, what? Ten? Eleven years? We went out on one date and now you just decided now to call me for round two? After all these years? Then when I extend an olive branch to you and accept your low ball offer, taking time out of my _busy _schedule to give you what you want, you decide to repay it by spending more time by yourself and with your friends than with me. And to top it all off, you gave me this _goddamn black rose_!"

She tore the corsage off of her wrist and threw it at Mort's face, gripping her dress once again and stomped away from him. This was the second time someone had left Mort in the dust and he hadn't even been at this place for a whole hour yet...

–

"And, once again, I'm forced to be by myself by someone who doesn't seem interested in me," Mort told Gillian and David.

"Always alone...Got it," muttered David as he finished writing down the colonel's latest words. Gillian kicked David's leg under the table with her foot. David grunted, leaning down to rub the foot.

Gillian, however, had all attention on the suspect at hand. "How long were you by yourself this time?"

"Gosh, I don't know, I didn't keep track this time. I wasn't alone at the time of the murder though, I can assure you that if that's what you're thinking." Mort claimed.

"That sounds exactly like something someone with a guilty would say," noted David.

"Except I have someone who can back me up," Mort clarified.

–

"Hey!" Mort called out to the man who had just charged into the main room. He turned around, clutching at his left eye with his wrist.

"Were you talking to me?" He asked.

"Yeah, you. What's wrong with your eye?"Mort pressed. The stranger dropped his hand down, revealing that his eye was turning as purple as his suit. The colonel took him by the hand and escorted him away, heading to the table where the drinks were supposed to be placed. It was a mess now, alcohol and glass all over the floor. Regardless, he reached out for the bottle of champagne and raised it up. "Press this against it, keep the pressure up."

The man in purple smiled, "Thanks," he muttered.

"How did this happen?" Mort tried to ask him.

The other man paused; he seemed unsure of how to answer that question. "I was running after my wife. But Wilma was too fast for me."

Mort stared for a little bit, not entirely sold on that explanation. Regardless, he shrugged and changed the subject,"Well, helping you is no problem to me. Mortimer Mustard, at your service," he introduced.

"Preston Plum. Pleased to meet you, Mortimer." The two men, now newly acquainted, shook hands, each holding on firmly.

"Just call Mort, everyone does! That or the Colonel!" Mort insisted to Preston's humor.

"Oh, you're a colonel? In the army?"

"Used to be, but I still love the title all these years later. What do you do, Preston?"

"Well, I am quite a renowned professor, perhaps you may know a little of my work? I'm the head of the psychology department at Wayne State University,"

" Can't say that I have, Professor."

Preston laughed, "It's fine," he assured Mort, who smiled just as the two overheard a crashing sound coming from the left. The colonel and the professor looked over and saw a number of worried guests rushing over. Preston set the bottle down and jogged over, leaving Mort to tread slowly behind. He stood behind some of the guests, looking in between two to see what everyone else had seen: _Bobby_.

His fiancee, his Sabrina was sobbing over him. Holding his cheek as she tried to plead with him to stay with her. Mort was just frozen, petrified even. He could only watch as the woman wailed in mourning over the death of her lover. Mort's eyes shifted, glancing at the other people dispersing. Not daring to even say one comforting word to the woman who had just watched her beloved die No one except him, that was. Despite his nerves kicking in, trying to tell him to leave the woman be, he set a hand on her shoulder. Patting it to comfort her. He took a few steps back anxiously, as if he had just patted a bear and was expecting an attack.

Instead she slowly stood up, making eye contact with Mort with her dark brown eyes. He tried to give her what he believed to be a friendly smile. He didn't want to hurt her. After all, she had lost a lover and he had lost a friend. She remained speechless as she opened her arms, latching onto Mort's body tightly. She shuddered once against him, then did it again and again. It all devolved into a soft sobbing. He just patted her back, letting her cry onto his shoulder. "It's okay...," he whispered to her, "I've got you...I've got you."

–

"Do you think Miss Scarlett acted at all, well...suspiciously?" David asked Mort.

"If you mean do I think she killed Bobby, absolutely not. You don't have a moment like that with a stone cold killer. She's a good girl." Mort answered.

"Then, do you recall anyone who behaved strangely in any way? Anyone who seemed strange?" Gillian questioned.

The colonel massaged his stubbly chin, giving that question some thought. He eventually produced an answer, "The professor, Preston...I did notice some odd behavior, but not from him. From his wife."

–

When the police and the paramedics had come to take away Bobby's body, a number of his guests remained. Talking to the police, talking among themselves, talking to themselves. Mort was among them, and so was Preston, much to the colonel's surprise. When he spotted the professor, he dovetailed it towards him. Just as he was about to reach him, though, somebody intercepted him.

"We have to go," the woman told Preston.

"Wilma, they wanted to talk to me." Preston told her. Apparently, the woman in the red dress was that wife he had been told about, _Wilma_.

"No, we are leaving this instant." She insisted, nudging her husband to follow her. He complied. Mort watched the couple race away, without so much as an idea as to the motive behind her urgency.

–

"So, you think Plum's wife may be the one behind the murder?" Gillian asked.

"I never saw her besides that moment, as far as I know, she could have been the murderer," responded Mort.

"Thank you for cooperating, then. You're free to leave now, Colonel Mustard," Gillian told Mort, who nearly immediately bolted from out of the room. "There's something fishy about him," She told David

"You're telling me," Gillian agreed. She leaned onto the cold table, her fist balancing her head as she noted "We're still going to have to tell Papa what he told us, implicating Plum's wife."

"Let's just hope he doesn't get upset that it's been almost a week and we're no closer to solving this case," hoped David. Gillian found that she couldn't help but agree with that thought, but unlike David, it only motivated her to want to try to work harder. The more time that passed, the longer the killer was roaming the streets of Detroit.

–

The mulberry-colored cell phone on the counter next to the bed began to ring, its ring tone resembling a home line phone ringing. Two rings passed before one of the two in the bed adjacent to the counter stirred, waking from her slumber.

"Preston, your phone's ringing," Wilma told her husband in a groggy tone. She reached over and turned the knob on the lamp to illuminate the room. She looked at Preston, lying on his side still deep asleep. "Did you hear me, Preston? Someone is calling you."

Still no response from her husband. Despite her annoyance at Preston's refusal to wake up and answer his phone, Wilma was used to this type of behavior, though. She grabbed his phone and looked at the screen: The call was from a number she didn't recognize. Wilma hesitantly accepted the call and answered, "Hello?"

"Is this Preston Plum?"

"This is Preston's wife speaking, he's currently...occupied."

"Oh, good, we were actually calling to ask about you."

Wilma didn't know whether she should feel worried or confused, so she asked, "May I ask who is calling my husband about me at this time of night?"

"This is Sargent Gil Grey, of the Detroit Police Department. I wanted to know if you available to come down for some questioning."

"For what exactly?" Wilma had to ask.

"We need to ask you some questions about the murder of Robert Boddy. You were present the night he was murdered, correct?"

Wilma's stomach dropped down into her colon when the name 'Robert Boddy' was brought up. She paused, eventually stuttering out, "Y-Yes I was...I can come down soon to answer your questions, it depends on my schedule, I can be a busy bee sometimes."

"Whenever you're available, please come down. You can call me at this number," Gil told Wilma, whom scrambled to find a pen and a post it to scratch the phone number she was enclosed by the police sergeant.

"Thank you, I will call back when I can," Wilma told Gil, hanging up immediately.

She sat the phone against her chest and stared at the wall, tears starting to form in her eyes. Of all the things Wilma could have been forced into doing, the one thing she didn't want to relive was the night she went to Mr. Boddy's party.

After all, who would want to revisit the night they committed a sin?


	4. Episode 3: Little White Lies

With her large purse in both hands, Wilma White faltered up the steps to the police station in her cream-colored flats. She stopped for a moment, leaning against the railing to set her purse down so she could rub the tender sole of her foot. Running around town all day doing errands could do that to you. Especially in shoes that were considerably uncomfortable width-wise. After a minute, she pressed her foot back inside her shoe and snatched her purse up.

Entering the police station, she stood confused. Despite being summoned by Sergeant Grey, Wilma didn't know what to do. She couldn't say she had ever been to a police station before. Her eyes wandered through the station, not settling on any one thing until she saw what was in front of her: A desk with a woman behind it, chattering away on a telephone.

"And you know what I told her?" The other woman gabbed to whomever was on the other end of the phone, "I told Ruby...Oh, can I help you?"

Wilma stared for a moment, not realizing that she was being addressed. "Uh, yes. My name is Wilma White, I believe Sergeant Grey wanted to meet with me?"

"Oh, I'll let him know you're here! Take a seat," she insisted. Wilma moved to the nearest chair and took a seat while the woman quickly ended her conversation and dialed up the sergeant.

"Gil, it's Yvette...I know I'm supposed to wait until you're out of meetings to call, but how was I supposed to...Oh, I swear, sometimes I could bash your face in! I'm just calling to let you know your latest suspect for the Boddy murder has arrived...Of course it's her, why would she pretend to be a... Yes, she's waiting here right now!...Okay, goodbye."

Yvette hung up the phone and laughed to herself; she tilted her head to where Wilma was sitting and sighed. She laughed again in a husky tone before she gested, "Sometimes, I swear I wonder just what would Gil do without me?"

Wilma did not acknowledge the receptionist with more than a chuckle. Only one thought was racing through her head: Yvette had called her a suspect. Wilma was no suspect in anything, all the sergeant had asked her to come here for was to ask her a few questions. And she was more than happy to give a few answers. If she was being suspected of foul play, though, they were wrong. She had no part in what happened to that man and didn't know why they thought she might. The question of why they did was going to itch inside her mind until she got answers.

Waiting for the sergeant, Wilma fluctuated between staring at the clock on the wall, glancing over at the brassy receptionist and checking the time again on her phone. She had nearly dozed off until she felt a hand tap her shoulder.

"Hope I didn't scare you," the unfamiliar man told her.

"Are you Sergeant Grey?" Wilma demanded to know.

"No, I'm Detective David Dove," he clarified, holding his hand out for her, "And you're Wilma Plum, yes?"

"Wilma White, yes.

"Come with me."

* * *

><p>"Sergeant Grey told me that he'd be the one interviewing me, not you two." Wilma she entered the room with David.<p>

"He assigned this case to us, Mrs. Plum," Gillian explained to the older woman, "He brings us our suspects, we're the ones who question them."

"Well, he could have made an effort to tell me that." Wilma suggested.

"It's not a part of the sergeant's job to tell you every detail." Gillian responded in a rather cold tone.

David put his hand on Gillian's arm, a motion for her to hold back a little. He sat down and approached her calmly, "He's just our boss, think of him as the gatherer and us as the...hunters," he said, realizing as he spoke that perhaps he hadn't made the right choice of metaphor.

"Well, I don't like being hunted." Wilma commented.

"Let's just get on with this, shall we?" Gillian tried to command.

Wilma rolled her eyes, "We shall, what do you want to know?"

"Just start from the beginning, Mrs. Plum, and work your way up from there." Gillian instructed her.

"Well, okay, but only if you call me by the right name. I never took my husband's name, I've always been Wilma White," Wilma corrected of the detectives.

"We're sorry, Mrs. White." David told her.

Wilma paused for a brief second, then sighed as she began her recollection, "Well, I started the day with a lunch out with my son. He goes out with both me and his dad on separate meals once a week. This was our time. We went to that little diner on the other side of town. He likes it, well, we both like it."

* * *

><p>"Do you remember how angry Dad was when I did that?"<p>

Wilma was lost in her thoughts as she stared down at the restaurant menu. She ignored the storytelling her son Peter was doing while she thought about what she had to do today. And what was to come tonight.. Her and Preston had been invited to a celebration at the home of someone she hadn't heard of. Who was Bobby Boddy? She had tried to probe her husband for some details about the man. Of course, she had forgotten that when he was nose deep in a book, he was lost in his own world where she didn't exist.

"...I guess you don't since you aren't listening."

Wilma looked up at Peter, who waited for a response. She only exhaled and started to rub her forehead.

"Sorry, Pete. I just have a lot on my mind today, it's gonna be a busy day after this." Wilma confided to her child.

"Really? Tell me more," Peter asked; he added, "All I have planned today is band practice. After that, I'm going home to binge watch _Veronica Mars_ while eating enough Halloween candy to feed a small country."

"Your dad got us invited to a party tonight, so I have to get us some new outfits, then get my face and hair looking presentable before I even take a foot in there," Wilma began to explain.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Mom, don't worry about it. You probably look better than all those boring rich people do."

"Probably?" Wilma chuckled.

"Probably," he repeated with a lopsided grin. Peter looked over his shoulder and quickly took two napkins out of a dispenser placed at the end of table. He set one aside for himself and one for his mother. Wilma glanced behind him and saw the waiter coming over, plates of food on a trey.

"Iceberg wedge salad for the Missus," the waiter announced as he set it down. He followed with Peter's order, "Chicken pot pie for the Mister."

"Thank you," Wilma made sure to say, smiling at the waiter as he moved aside. She looked back at her son, who was already attacking his food with his knife and fork. "You need to thank the man next time. Without him, you wouldn't be stuffing your face like a barnyard animal."

Peter popped a piece of the food into his face and nodded, "You're right, Mom. I _do _eat like a pig."

"You get that from your dad, not me." Wilma insisted, making her child laugh.

The two focused on eating their meals for the next while. Peter tugged at the collar of his violet tee shirt as his fork picked up what remained of his lunch. Pushing it inside his lips, he spoke with his mouth full. "I need some money, Mom."

"How much?" Wilma asked immediately.

"Just a couple hundred. I just told my friend I'd see if I could give him some money for a new bass." Peter explained.

"If you're out of money, you'll have to wait until you get your next allowance. I can't give you anything even if I wanted to," explained Wilma.

Peter shrugged it off, "Just thought I'd ask. It's alright."

Wilma just looked at him weary as the waiter returned with a piece of paper. She flipped it over and took a glance. She pressed into her white purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, placing it next to the bill.

"You take care of the bill, Pete, I gotta go." Wilma told her son, before she stood up to leave. Before she departed, however, she made sure to lean over and hug her son goodbye. He leaned in, reciprocating the sign of affection, and patted her on the back.

"See you next time," Peter said to her before she left him alone in the restaurant.

* * *

><p>"Hello, I have a dress here that I put on hold? It's reserved under Wilma White." Wilma told the clerk at the front desk. The saleswoman went away, presumably to find the dress. Waiting patiently, Wilma's eyes wandered off until they settled on someone she thought she recognized, waiting outside one of the dressing rooms. Wilma never liked to stare, but she did so anyway to try to place where she knew her from. She glanced back just in time for the clerk to be carrying back the dress she had reserved, in a clear plastic casing. Inside laid the beautiful white dress she had set her eyes on to wear tonight.<p>

"How do you plan to pay?".

"Hold on."

Wilma dropped her purse onto the counter. She opened it up and dug inside, not stopping until she found what she was looking for: Her lavender credit card. She handed the card over and let the woman behind the counter do what she had to. Wilma watched as the card was ran through the machine, which set off an annoying beep.

"Your card was declined," The Clerk told her.

"That's impossible. Try running it again, it should work." Wilma requested.

The woman did just as the customer ordered. The machine made the same noise: The card was declined. Wilma looked back into her purse and retrieved her other card from the contents inside. She handed it to the store employee while retrieving her first card. This one was slid through the machine just like the last. Another beep, shutting her down from making the purchase.

"...I guess you can just take it back," Wilma told the lady, taking back her second card. She tried to push out a smile, "I'll get it another time."

Walking away, Wilma glanced back at the woman she tried to place before. She was certain she had seen her somewhere. And then it hit her: She was the woman in the picture with Bobby Boddy in the invitation to the party. That was his fiancee up there. Wilma quickly scurried out of vision, rushing out of the store before she could be seen. She didn't want to be seen, if only to spare her and her husband some embarrassment tonight...

* * *

><p>"Preston, I need to ask you something!" Wilma called out as soon as she returned home. She tossed her purse on the mauve couch before taking a seat next to it. She looked over at Preston at the other end of the sofa, nose deep in one of his text books. "Did you hear me, Preston?" She asked in a louder volume, "I need to talk to you!"<p>

Preston set his book down with a soft groan, "I'm not deaf, Wilma. I heard you the first time. You know I'm always a sucker for texts on developmental psychology."

"We don't have any money left, Preston." Wilma told him point blank, "Do you know anything about that? We should have at least a hundred and fifty or so left, I was going to use it for our plans tonight."

Shaking his head, Preston set his book down on the arm of the couch to devote his attention to his wife. "We are out of money, but I'm sure I told you that, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't." Wilma refuted.

"I'm sure I did and you forgot," Preston insisted.

Wilma didn't have the time nor the energy to start an argument with Preston. She changed the subject, "I'm just happy I already had your suit dry cleaned for tonight."

"What suit?" Preston asked in a confused manner. Wilma rolled her eyes and got back up, moseying away to the white carpeted stairwell. Once up, she found her husband's suit still in its dry cleaning case and still hanging on the door knob to their bedroom. Exactly where she had left it before leaving in the morning. She tossed the bag containing the outfit over her shoulder and trudged back down.

"This suit," Wilma announced while placing it down on the other arm of the couch. Preston set his book down again and stared puzzled.

"That's weird, I haven't seen this before." Preston muttered.

"Believe it or not, that's what you're going to wear for the party tonight," said Wilma.

"What party?"

_You gotta be kiddin' me_, Wilma thought to herself. "Preston...You and I are going out tonight, to your friend Mr. Boddy's house, you remember, right?"

"I thought that was tomorrow night," claimed Preston.

"No, it's tonight."

"Why didn't you tell me it was tonight, then?"

"Because you were the one who told me, I thought you would remember something you told me first." Wilma groaned in frustration. She sighed and just held out her hand in front of Preston, "I am just going to go to get myself together and whip up a face for tonight. Please just put the suit on and I'll meet you here later, okay?"

"Okay," agreed Preston.

"Love you," Wilma made sure to tell him before heading back upstairs.

"Love you too," Preston smiled.

* * *

><p>Wilma tossed every dress in her closet onto the lilac-colored covers of her and Preston's bed. She needed something perfect, something that would help make her look like all those richie riches coming to that party tonight. The first dress she tried on was black and all it did was look more worn out than usual. There were quite a number of dresses she tossed aside next, too ugly or too causal or too cheap looking to wear a party like this. She only had a small handful of dresses left when she was done. She sighed and pulled a blue dress off the top until she saw a dress that caught her eye: An old red dress of hers.<p>

She had only worn the dress once, when she and Preston took Peter out to celebrate the boy getting his two year degree. It still fit like a snug glove a year plus later. She turned around, studying her reflection in the mirror hanging above Preston's desk. She had a long way to go before she could look as good as she hoped to, but this red dress was the one. One hurdle was down; now came the real obstacle course: What to do with the rest of her?

* * *

><p>"And so, I spent the next few hours putting my face on," Wilma told the two detectives, "You might not think it should take a person that long just to paint their face and fluff their hair, but I was a woman possessed that night. I just wanted to be perfect, as subjective as that is."<p>

"We all want to look good, Mrs. White." David said reassuringly.

"So, you went to Mr. Boddy's place right after you were done?" Gillian asked next.

"Not exactly," Wilma answered, "There was a complication before we got out the door."

* * *

><p>"...You gotta be kiddin' me," Wilma said when she reached downstairs.<p>

"What?" Preston asked. Wilma scowled upon seeing that not only had her husband not put on his suit, but he hadn't moved an inch from where she had left him. How someone could read for hours upon hours, she didn't know. She checked the time on the clock: The party started in less than ten minutes.

Wilma decided it was just best things to move things along as fast as she could. "Preston, you gotta get dressed. The party starts in ten, on delay, on delay!"

"What? Why didn't you tell me it was so late?" Preston asked in what seemed to be a perpetual state of confusion.

"...Let me repeat: Are you kidding me?" Wilma shook her head, not able to believe her husband right now. She just had to sigh at this, "Just get changing!"

Preston set his book back down and snatched the case containing his suit, marching over to the bathroom. He locked the door, leaving Wilma to wait alone. She passed the time pacing in the kitchen. Tapping her fingers on Preston's purple toaster. Staring at the clock, wondering how long he was going to take.

About twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opened up. "Wilma!" Preston called out, "I...I need some help."

"What's the matter?" Wilma asked after she opened the door.

"I can't get this bow tie done," revealed Preston, fumbling with the wine-colored tie around his neck.

Wilma giggled and draped her arms her husband's shoulders. "You always have to get me to do this, why don't you learn how for yourself?"

"Mine always come undone, yours are just better than mine." Preston insisted, smiling as Wilma finished forming the little purple bow against his neck.

"Here you are, nice and tight," she said, moving back to admire her husband's complete outfit. "You certainly look dapper, don't you?"

"I guess I do," was Preston's response as he checked out his reflection in the mirror.

"Of course you do." Wilma assured him, smiling at both of their reflections. They truly looked their best; Bobby Boddy and the rest of those people were going to love them.

* * *

><p>"After that was when we got to the party," Wilma told the two detectives.<p>

"And what do you remember about the party?" Gillian asked Wilma.

"It was nice, at first." Wilma said to her.

"What do you mean 'At first'?"

* * *

><p>"Preston, I think I saw Madame Rose," Wilma whispered to her husband as they entered the main hall hand-in-hand, where the life of the party was at.<p>

"Who?" Preston asked.

"The psychic from TV, I just saw her in here. Maybe we can get her autograph, she's the best daytime host since Oprah went off the air." Wilma explained in a hushed tone. The two stopped when they found themselves face to face with the host of the evening's celebration.

"Preston, I see you made it." Bobby Boddy greeted the professor.

"Of course I came." Preston greeted back, before leaning over to Wilma and asking, "Although, how late are we?"

"It's quarter to ten." Wilma stated.

"Is this your wife?" Bobby asked Preston.

"Guilty as charged." Wilma answered for him.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Preston's told me many things about you." Bobby

"Oh, I'm sure he's told you many things, but I doubt any of them are flattering," Wilma joked to the host, which they both laughed at.

"Perhaps," Bobby said to her, "But I was always taught to be a gentleman first and foremost. I wouldn't say a bad word to you even if he did."

"Well, aren't you a real prince charming, Mr. Boddy?" Wilma said in jest, before she glanced aside him. "Excuse me, but I didn't eat before coming here, is there any food being served tonight?"

"Of course," Bobby pointed behind himself, "I have an Italian place catering tonight, it was Sabrina's idea."

Wilma swore she could feel her eyes widen despite her self control when Bobby mentioned his fiancee's name. The thoughts of her failure to purchase that dress with Sabrina as a potential witness coming back to her. While Preston and Bobby continued on a conversation, Wilma slowly got away and made a bee line toward the catering area. All she was really hoping for was to avoid a run in with Sabrina. Her

When she found the catering, Wilma took a look at the food. She didn't want to eat a lot or eat heavy. So, instead of taking anything of substance, she just picked up a handful of crackers. She nibbled on them piece by piece as wandered the party scene. She didn't speak to everyone, she just munched on the crackers and listened to the others sharing stories among themselves. Observing as Preston often liked to do. She didn't stop moving, until she heard a familiar voice call out her name, "Wilma?"

* * *

><p>Wilma paused in the midst of recounting, inhaling deeply as she remembered what happened next.<p>

"Did something happen, Mrs. White?" Gillian pressed.

"Maybe she's just having trouble remembering." David suggested.

"That's not it," Wilma said, "I just...well, I just can't say I remember what happened next fondly."

"Tell us." Gillian insisted.

* * *

><p>"Wilma?" The voice repeated.<p>

The woman in red bit her tongue and forced herself to turn around to face the shadow of her past. One whom was an even worse choice for a run-in than Bobby Boddy's fiancee.

"Hi...Hello, Petunia," Wilma greeted softly to Petunia Peacock, who looked like the belle of the ball. With a form-fitting royal blue dress, a neck adorned with shining sapphires and a cigarette sticking out of a cyan cigarette holder, she was truly stunning.

"Wilma White; I thought I'd seen the last of you. I didn't know Robert had hired you to be his help, good for you!" Petunia smiled as she took a drag of her cigarette.

"I'm not his maid." Wilma told her.

"Oh? If you aren't Robert's maid, then are you his fiancee's maid? Or perhaps you're just a cook or a chauffeur for him?" Petunia pressed for an answer.

"I'm the man's guest, same as you," insisted Wilma.

Petunia snorted loudly, "You just simply can't be Robert's guest!...Although looking at you now, I can see you made a pitiful attempt to create the illusion of being well off." Petunia scanned her form and shook her head, "Quite pitiful, in fact. I can't believe you're wearing that atrocious red dress, straight from a clearance rack at JC Penny's no doubt, with those dotty old gold shoes."

Wilma swallowed down her words, not daring to tell Petunia what she really wanted to. Petunia looked down again and reached out, gripping Wilma's hands forcefully with her own. "Oh, dear lord!" She shouted, laughing at what she saw, "These nails! Wilma, are your fingernails always that dirty? Or have you been sticky fingered in Robert's home? As you were in my own."

"I have told you so many times, Petunia," Wilma began to refute, pointing her finger at the woman, "I did not steal a thing fro-"

"GET THAT FILTHY FINGER OUT OF MY FACE!" Petunia bellowed with a quick and strong slap to Wilma's finger. Wilma stumbled back, cowering in front of the taller woman.

"I am going to tell you one more time, Petunia: I am here the same way you are: As a guest. My husband and I are Mr. Boddy's guests." Wilma attempted to get through Petunia's thick head

"Oh, your husband is here too? I can only imagine what he must be: A butler, probably. Or perhaps a groundskeeper." Petunia laughed. She turned her back to Wilma, starting to leave. But not before tilting her head back to say one last thing to her, "But if I see him, I'll make sure to have a chat with him. Make sure he knows that he's married to a _thief_."

Wilma was finally left alone. She had many things she wanted to say, many things she wanted to do. Part of her just wanted to grab Petunia by her pretty blonde melon and yank out her bleached hair until she could accept the truth. Another part of her just wanted to find Preston before that woman did and wisp him away from the party. But, in the end, Wilma knew it was all for nothing. Tonight, her goose was cooked. Wilma just ran away. Ran until she could find a place for herself to weep over Petunia's stinging words and what they meant to her.

* * *

><p>She clenched a hand over her mouth, her eyes closed tight as she couldn't help but cry at the memory. David set his pen and paper down and left the interrogation room, quick on his feet. Gillian just stared at the crying woman in front of her, not certain on what move to make next.<p>

"What did she mean when she called you a thief?" Gillian asked in her best attempt at a soft tone.

Wilma sniffed, "Years ago, back when times were harder for my family...I started working as a maid again. I hadn't since I left school to help support my mom. The last person that hired me before Preston hit it big was her, Petunia Peacock. I worked for her and her husband for over a year, until Petunia claimed she saw me trying to steal some precious thing of hers. Some kind of family heirloom. But I didn't steal anything! I guarantee you, you go into her house, it's still sitting there, dust-covered on in one of their many rooms."

Gillian nodded, wondering if she should be writing what Wilma shared with her down for the record or not. Lucky for her, David returned and set down what he had left to get: A box of Kleenex. He nudged it towards the other woman, who took one out and wiped her face with it.

"Some people are just cruel," David told her with a tenderness that continued to come as a surprise to Gillian.

"You've never seen cruelty until it comes from Petunia Peacock, that's for sure." Wilma commented.

"I hate to press you further, but could you please continue, Mrs. White?" Gillian requested.

"Oh...Sure..." Wilma sighed, blowing her nose with another white tissue before continuing her recount.

* * *

><p>A white paper towel was ripped from the stack on the rack. Wilma dabbed an edge against her the black make up running underneath her eyes lid. She knew enough about how to fix her make up to remove the damage that had undone her face. Opening her purse, she retrieved a vial of concealer. Pushing the lid open, the woman dabbed her fingers in the pale substance and rubbed it along her cheeks, flushed from crying. It was a cathartic process for her, getting rid of the effect cruel words could do to her. Although she didn't look as good as she used to be, she looked like nothing had gotten to her. She looked like the normal, plain woman she usually was instead of the part of a rich professor's wife.<p>

She looked like the woman she felt she was beneath the surface.

Despite her unhappiness with her appearance, at least she could show herself again. Wilma would just find Preston, tell him she was leaving and then split. Not dare to embarrass him any more than she already had. She owed him that much. Leaving the bathroom just as another woman entered, Wilma walked towards the hall way only to find someone waiting for her.

"Where have you been?" Preston asked her.

"I was powdering my nose." Wilma answered calmly.

"I have been looking everywhere for you, where have you been?" Preston repeated in a demanding tone.

"I was powdering my nose!" She repeated, more urgently.

"Wilma, someone named Petunia Peacock approached me, she...told me things."

Wilma felt like she was going to be sick.

"Is it true what she said? That you tried to steal a marble candlestick from her?"

"No, of course not. What kind of a person do you think I am?"

"You never did tell me why you were fired by her. I think I have a right to know if it was because of attempted theft."

That attempt at saving her face that Wilma had done in the bathroom may be a failed one as Preston's accusation stung her.

"You really are blind, you know that?" Wilma told her husband, "If you really believe a word Petunia Peacock has to say about me."

"But you never tell me anything, Wilma. You didn't tell me this celebration was happening tonight, just like you didn't tell me to get ready until it was late and now you're not telling me why you're acting this way and why you were fired. All I want is the truth, Wilma!" Preston snapped.

Wilma smoldered, "You want the truth, Preston? Here's the truth: Petunia Peacock hates me. Just like she hates you and how she probably even hates our boy, our little Peter. Not all of them hate you, Preston. In fact, most of them probably love you, like your friend Bobby. But they all hate me. Each and every one of these people here tonight hate my guts. And you know why?"

She moved closer towards him; Preston inched backwards before she carried on, "Because I remind them that there is something, someone below them and their class. I'm an outsider, a freak. I can guarantee you that Petunia Peacock, Bobby Boddy and every other woman and man here tonight woke up to present after present underneath the Christmas tree when they were young, too many to count. While me? I was the one putting the presents under the tree for people like them! People like us have to work for every cent we have. We don't have old money to fall back on like they do. And they think that's just another thing for to laugh at with their fancy clothes and their million dollar parties...All I wanted was for tonight to be perfect. All I wanted was for them to love you, to love me, to love us. All I wanted was for us to finally find a place we could belong. We've never had that. But now I know, my presence tonight was just some cruel joke I didn't know I was a part of. We're never going to belong here...At least I won't. You still have a chance, take it while you can. Because this could be the only one you get!

"Just leave me be and have the night of your life, Preston." Wilma finished, tears rolling down her face once more.

Preston stayed silent, observing her in the same way she had tried to mimic earlier. He reached out towards his wife, but didn't touch her. "Look, Wilma...I understand where you're coming from: Seeing these people, it makes my inferiority complex flare up too. Seeing how much more they have than us. More than they'll probably ever have than us. But we came to have a good time, right? To have a good night, just the two of us, right? Come with me, Wilma. Stay with me and we'll have a good time yet, we can belong. And if Petunia tries to spread more lies and slander about you, I'll have a talk with her myself. People like her often just act that way to try to compensate for their own shortcomings...What do you say?"

Wilma felt something rise in her that she did not recognize: It wasn't happiness or relief, it wasn't sadness or despair. It was something strange, something she had not truly felt in a very, very long time: Wrath.

* * *

><p>"What did you do next, Mrs. White?" Gillian asked.<p>

Wilma shrugged twice, to both the detectives, "I did the only thing I felt was right: I bashed his face in."

* * *

><p>Wilma didn't remember exactly how it happened.<p>

One moment her fingers clenched and formed a fist. The next, she saw stars. And after that, Preston was laying on the floor, groaning in agony. Wilma looked at her fist; her knuckles were tinted purple and bruising. She didn't fully realize what had happened until Preston looked up at her: His eye was swollen. I struck him, she realized in horror. He didn't say a word to her, but the shock and pain was clear from that swollen eyeball. Wilma didn't know what to do. Instead of thinking, she let impulse and fear reign supreme and ran. Ran away from Preston and the party. Ran as far as her golden shoes would take her. Ran until she was outside the mansion, where she could feel safe.

* * *

><p>"What happened after you ran out?" David asked her when he finished writing down the latest of her retelling.<p>

"Well, I was..." Wilma began to say. She came to a halt as she recalled what happened next.

A minute of silence passed until Gillian repeated David's question, "Can you tell us what happened after you ran out of the house?"

Wilma slowly began to shake her head, "I...I can't."

"Looks like the other guy might be right about her," Gillian muttered.

"Other guy? Who are you talking about?" Wilma asked in shock.

"Mrs. White, if you don't tell us the rest of your story, we're going to have more of a reason to suspect you. We had another recount from a witness pointing their finger at you." David explained, trying to make himself sound calming to her like he had before. All he managed to do was make Wilma angrier.

"I did not have anything to do with the death of that man." Wilma insisted to the detectives, "Now, I was only brought here for questioning, that's what I was told. You can't arrest me. And I do have an alibi. If you do some more investigating, digging around, you can figure that out. I know you can...But as far as I'm concerned, I can't tell you anything more."

"Mrs. White," Gillian tried to call out to her as Wilma left the room. She sighed in exasperation and told her partner, "Go get her, Dove."

David did as was asked and went after Wilma. "Mrs. White," he shouted to her as he caught up with her pace.

"Detective, I already told you, I can't tell you anything else besides the fact that I'm not the one you're looking for," insisted Wilma.

"Please, Mrs. White, just tell us the truth...I can tell you're a good person, all I want is my partner and I to have the proof to support that," pleaded David.

Wilma looked into the detective's dark eyes and just shook her head at the plee. Instead, she left the station without another word. David didn't know how to react to this behavior; Gillian strolled up behind him.

"Do you need one of these, Dove?" She asked, holding out the box of tissues he had brought into the room.

"Nah," said David. He looked over at Gillian, who dropped the box of tissues down on the front desk. "I just don't think a woman like that could be capable of murder," he admitted to her.

"All people are capable of murder, Dove." Gillian told him straight forward. David twisted his lip, but found what Gillian said making sense. The duo started to walk away in tandem from the front of the station. Both pondered the same question: _What is she hiding?_

* * *

><p>Wilma sat alone on the railing outside of the mansion, holding her purse straps in both hands. Staring directly at her gold shoes on the ground, she didn't dare to lift her head up. She tried so hard to excel in life, to fulfill her dreams. Sure, she had her boys and a comfortable life now. But why was this was where she always ended back up? Why did she always end up alone wondering what she did wrong and could have done right. The past always repeated itself for old Wilma White. No matter how much she tried, she was always going to be the one who had messes to clean. The only difference between then and now was that she had to clean her own messes instead of someone else's.<p>

"Excuse me?"

A pair of brown loafers entered Wilma's line of vision.

"...Excuse me?"

Looking up, she saw a stranger. Tall, dark, tan and with a pair of blue eyes that looked like the sapphires Petunia wore.

"May I sit?" He asked her.

Wilma moved over so he could take a seat. He sat and tugged his brown jacket down. The man started to pat against a couple of odd places on the jacket. His hands shifted around, trying to find something.

"I want my cigarettes...Do you see my pack?" He asked her. Wilma took one glance down and saw a little blue lid sticking out of his beige pant pocket. She tapped against it; the stranger looked down and sighed.

"Thank you." He told her as he pulled out the little blue box out of the pocket. He smacked the bottom, pushing two cigarettes out. He slid the package in one jacket pocket and retrieved a bronze lighter. One cigarette went between his big lips while the lighter was sparked to life. A golden flame lit the cigarette.

"You want?" He asked with his mouth clasped around the cigarette. Wilma stared at it, considering.

"Yes," was her answer. She took the cigarette placed it between her white lipstick-coated lips. He leaned over and gave the woman her own yellow light to smoke with. She thanked the man and the two sat there, smoking in silence until he spoke again.

"_Quel est votre nom_?" He tried to ask her.

"Excuse me?" She replied, not understanding.

"Oh, sorry...I forget some can't speak French," He said in a flustered tone.

Wilma laughed, "Sorry, I only know English and some Spanish."

"What is your name?"

"Wilma, what's yours?"

"Brunette. Beau Brunette."

"Beau, eh? Suits you, being a handsome fella."

Now it was Beau who laughed, "I thought you did not speak French."

"I know a word or two." Wilma told him.

"Well, Wilma..._Tu es belle_...Do you know what that means?"

The woman wagged her head.

"It means, you are beautiful."

Wilma's blue eyes flickered with color for the first time in a very long time.


	5. Episode 4: It's Not Easy Being Green

"Are you sure you know where you're going, Dove?" Gillian asked David, before she took a sip of her hot tea beverage.

"There's an elm street in every city, Gill. The only difference between every other city and Detroit is that Detroit has at least three elm streets," David told her while twisting the steering wheel of his car along the road.

Gillian looked out the window while taking another sip of the honey tea she had bought. With her gaze fixed on the blurring buildings passing by, she asked her partner, "Do you think Papa's mad at us for spending almost two weeks looking for answers and finding nothing but shit?"

"Mad? I don't think he's mad just yet, but frustrated? Oh yeah," was his answer.

"Have you made contact with Mrs. White yet?"

"She won't answer any of my calls. I even had Yvette try once, she got hung up on."

"So we find someone who refuses to give us an alibi and thereby draws suspicion onto herself. But instead of pursuing that lead, we're going to question someone else who may not be involved in the murder at all? What part of this makes sense?"

"We'll crack Mrs. White eventually, maybe Sarge just thinks this reverend can help indict her directly." David suggested; Gillian just stared. He slowed down the automobile, stopping in front of a red stop sign. He looked down at the address written down on scrap paper and slapped his own forehead. "Green's address isn't on Elm Street, it's_ West _Elm Street."

Gillian turned her head to finally stare at him, "It's moments like this where it's no wonder we haven't moved any further on this case," she teased in a half-serious and half-playful manner. She took a loud slurp of her hot tea after speaking.

"Well, maybe you should drive next time." David teased right back at her before he made a U-turn. He changed the direction to the opposite path, the right direction to their latest suspect's address.

* * *

><p>"Well, shit." David muttered when they found the address they were looking for: It was one of the most enormous houses in a neighborhood filled with enormous houses. The residence was colored a pale shade of green, the only house that wasn't black or white in the neighborhood. Its front yard and driveway were almost as big as the width of the house. Parked in the driveway in front of David's Ford Taurus were a dark blue Mercedes Benz and a forest green BMW. "This is more money than I'm ever going to see my entire life, right here in this driveway."<p>

"Whine about it some more, why don't you?" Gillian teased again after she shut the car door on her side. She clasped a button on her grey trench coat and marched to the front entrance of the estate. Gillian knocked at the door in place. She pulled back and waited for someone to answer with David. However, to their surprise no one answered.

David looked up at the many windows of the house and then back at Gillian. "Maybe they're upstairs?" He guessed.

"Maybe they are," muttered Gillian before she reached out and knocked the door again, louder this time. The duo waited again; still no answer from either the man or the lady of the house.

"Try ringing the door bell?" David suggested. Gillian leaned in and just as she was about to ring said door bell, the door finally opened. But it wasn't Reverend Green nor was it his wife who opened the door.

"Who are you?" Gillian asked a man wearing a black and white suit.

"I'm the butler," he told her, as if it were something simple everyone knew. He scanned Gillian and David and said, "You must be the cops, let me take you inside."

"We're not cops, we're detectives." David insisted.

"Potato potata," was all the butler had to say to that. He stood aside for Gillian and David to enter the home. He closed the front door after them and went on to escort them through the inside of the estate. Everything seemed even bigger on the inside than it did on the outside to the two detectives.

"_Jeeves_!_...Jeeves_!"

Suddenly, the butler changed course. Gillian and David were momentarily confused, but quickly followed him. They marched until they were inside the kitchen, where the lady of the house was pacing in the kitchen.

"Oh, Jeeves, I need you toss this in the laundry immediately!" Petunia Peacock instructed the butler, tossing a dirty sky blue rag at his chest. She looked behind and saw the visitors in her home, "You two must be the constables Sergeant Grey sent here to talk to Gideon."

"Yes, we are." Gillian affirmed.

"He should be here any minute now. Sit down, you're making me nervous. I'm just correcting Magenta here," Petunia told them, standing back to show a terrified young woman in a black and white maid's uniform. Petunia picked up a navy blue towel, squeezing water out of it, and rubbed it against Magenta's face.

"I truly don't know why you insist on wearing that awful make up here, Magenta," Petunia told her as she forced the towel against her skin, "It truly makes you look like a horror."

"Please stop calling me a whore." Magenta whispered through tears.

"I'm not calling you a whore. I'm calling you a _horror_,there's quite a difference: A whore walks down the streets of this, people pick them up for tricks. A horror walks down the streets; people scream and flee in terror." Petunia clarified.

The detectives watched silently as Petunia finished scrubbing her maid's face. She tossed the bigger towel to Jeeves, who picked it up sloppily. "Wash them now, Jeeves," she commanded.

"Is your name really Jeeves?" David asked the butler.

"His name is Jasper," Petunia answered for the man, "But I prefer to refer to him by his surname. It's much nicer than Jasper, don't you think?"

"Sure." David muttered in agreement. Gillian glanced over at him and from the look of his eyes, she could tell what was going through his head: He was thinking about what Mrs. White had said about Petunia. She looked back over at Petunia and mentally crossed her fingers, hoping that David could maintain his professionalism while dealing with the reverend's wife.

Jeeves finally left the kitchen while Magenta wiped her tears away from her flush clean face. "Could you go upstairs, Magenta?" Petunia requested, "I need you to scour down some of the floors with vinegar, post hate."

The maid went away to do the chore asked of her, which left Gillian and David alone with the lady of the house. She didn't bother to look at them, instead lighting up a fresh cigarette with a lighter marked with the letters "P.P." in blue cursive handwriting. She finally told the detectives, "Gideon must be in the backyard still, you can go find him yourselves. I have things to do in town, anyhow."

Gillian and David nodded graciously to Petunia, letting themselves out of the kitchen while she smoked by herself.

* * *

><p>David pushed the back door to the mansion open. He and Gillian gazed at the backyard, which seemed to be almost the same size as the house itself, appearing never ending. Their beige shoes moved from the wooden floor of the home onto the wet green grass just as they finally saw the man of the house at last: Gideon Green. He was perched on top of a white horse, galloping across a track in the backyard. He pressed his legs against the horse and the animal slowed down, coming to a gradual halt so Gideon could drop back onto the ground.<p>

"Good afternoon, constables." Gideon greeted as he pushed himself off of his pet and dropped down. He cracked his knuckles and back, then adjusted his evergreen-colored blazer. "I hope you can pardon the hold up, I was taking this lovely creature here out for a ride despite the cool weather."

"I'm just impressed you own a _horse_, Reverend Green," admitted David.

Gideon patted the back of the white-haired horse as he pulled him towards his stable. He put up a bit of a struggle, but it was nothing the reverend couldn't handle. "This stallion, here, is Monty; short for Montgomery. Petunia gave him the name after a great-uncle or a great-grandfather of hers. But I thought Monty was better suited for him."

Gillian and David nodded along with the reverend as he pressed his pet in the stable and locked the door. "There's some salt in there for you, now go get it, boy! Go get it, go get it!" He cooed to the pet, who simpered off.

"Now, let's get inside, shall we?" Gideon told the two, marching first towards the back entry to the house.

* * *

><p>"So, let me get this straight?" Gideon began to summarize as he sat at the head of the fine wooden table, Gillian and David facing him from the other side. "You actually suspect me to have something to do with this murder?"<p>

"It's not like that, Mr. Green," Gillian began to clarify for him, "We've just been questioning some specific witnesses to try to figure out who the murderer could be. We were told you and your wife were present where Mr. Boddy was murdered twice and Sergeant Grey thought you could help us."

"Well, you're right about one thing: Petunia and I were invited to that gathering. We both knew Bobby for some time. But neither of us were involved in his murder if that's how you want to spin this."

Gillian shook her head, "We aren't trying to spin this any way."

"If anything, you repeated denials are spinning this a certain way." David spoke up.

"I am a man of God," Gideon insisted, "Thou shalt not murder is one of the ten commandments I follow as a Catholic."

"We'll see about that," was all Gillian had to say.

David reached inside of his coat and retrieved his well-worn white notepad and a pen "We just need you to talk with us, Gideon," David clicked the end of the black pen. "Tell us what you know so you can help us find whoever did it, and get the heat off of you."

"I find the only heat that be worth fearing is the heat of Hell's flames, but I will cooperate." Gideon assured the two.

"Start with the beginning of the day, do you remember where you were?" Gillian interrogated.

"The wife and I left home almost immediately," Gideon began to recall, "We were at the Meadow-Brooks's place, playing croquet in their backyard with them and the Snows."

* * *

><p>"Your move, Petunia!" Marigold Meadow-Brook called out.<p>

"Step aside, ladies and gentlemen," Petunia told the group with a brisk air of confidence. She positioned herself with her silver mallet and knocked her blue ball through the seventh hoop, knocking against Saul Snow's grey ball. She bowed as the others applauded for her, including Gideon. "Try to top that, Gideon," she said in a tone that was almost taunting.

"You hear that, Gideon? Your old lady's given you a challenge." Saul told him as he took the mallet from Petunia and handed it over to Gideon. The reverend took the mallet and stood behind his own green ball, which was ahead of the others by only centimeters. He placed the end of the mallet behind the ball and made a few slow gestures before he hit the ball roughly. Lucky for him, it worked out as the green ball rolled past the eighth hoop and the ninth hoop.

"Gideon wins." Saffron declared. The Snows and the Meadow-Brooks all applauded for Gideon. He took a couple of little bows for them and then faced the silent Petunia.

"He sure did," she said in a tone he couldn't quite decipher. She had a way of doing that: Sounding sincere, but also vindictive at the same time. She was quite the competitive one, he had to give her that. After all, it was why she had taken over managing his political campaign.

"Ladies, would you care to step inside for a minute while I discuss something with the men?" Gideon asked the three women. Saffron and Marigold both moved inside, while Petunia stood still.

"Kiss me, you fool," she ordered. Gideon leaned down and planted a kiss on her pale cheek. She sighed and marched into the house where the other women had gone.

"What do you need?" Malcolm Meadow-Brook asked Gideon, as the reverend slid the back door to the house shut.

"Alright," He began to say, "Mal, Saul, you know that I consider you both to be good friends, correct?"

"Look at you, buttering us up like little pigs," laughed Saul.

"I think I'm a good friend." Malcolm admitted aside.

"Well," Gideon began, "Remember those agreements we arranged a while ago? Are they still valid?...Will you two still support me and my campaign?"

Saul and Malcolm nodded; both men dug into their suit pockets and retrieved their check books. Looking through the contents, they both found what they were looking for and tore out the pieces of paper to hand to Gideon.

"Does this mean we really can count on the future Mayor of Detroit sponsoring Meadow-Brook Pork Products, Inc., even if a certain political group tries to come calling for us to be shut down?" Malcolm requested to know.

"Absolutely," guaranteed Gideon, "And the same deal goes for Snow Motors, both of you will be fully endorsed and sponsored when I enter office."

"I like the sound of that," commented Saul. As soon as Gideon folded the checks and tucked them into a pocket next to another from earlier, the three men turned their backs against the field they had just played croquet on and entered the house to reunite with their wives.

* * *

><p>"...Were you taking <em>bribes<em>?" David asked after Gideon paused his recount. Jeeves had arrived with empty glasses and bourbon, which he was pouring into the glass placed in front of Gideon.

Once Gideon's glass was full, he answered, "Of course not, they contributed and I accepted. It was a simple act of currency."

"Can I get a little of that, Jasper?" Gillian asked the butler, who placed a glass in front of Gillian and then did as was requested of him.

"His name is Jeeves, constable," insisted Gideon, which made Jeeves's eyes flash with concern.

"Potato potata." Gillian repeated from earlier. Jeeves hoofed it, getting away from Gideon and Gillian to avoid any more signs of a potential conflict.

Gideon sighed, "To repeat myself, I was _not_ taking bribes and I detest that sort of accusation."

"I apologize then, Reverend. I have a bad habit of...calling things as I see them" David told him.

"You might want to work towards amending that, constable." Gideon chastised.

"Noted." David muttered under his breath.

"So, what happened next?" Gillian asked to keep things moving along.

"It was a pretty droll day for Petunia and I," Gideon shared. "After that, we mingled for a bit until we had to leave to. We went back home for a while, then made a few pit stops before we went to church."

"Church? On Halloween nigh-" David began to interject before he remembered just exactly who he was talking to. "...I really need to work on amending on that."

"I'd say you need this more than I do, but you're driving," Gillian commented before drinking some of the bourbon Jeeves had poured for her.

"I take church very seriously, more than most I suppose, but that day I was due to give a sermon. Something for everyone to remember, about the holiday at hand." Gideon recalled.

* * *

><p>"To bring this to a close, we should not fear the holiday today," Gideon spoke to the audience sitting in the pews. He paused for the effect and then carried on, "Halloween may glamorize a number of fears: Monsters. Demons. The Devil. Murder and death. But we, as good Catholic people, we have no need to fear Halloween. Those monsters like ghosts, witches and little green aliens don't exist. The Devil may be real, but as long as we follow God's commands, God's words, we can keep that evil at bay. And as for murder? Our country's criminal justice system does its best to prevent murder and bring justice to those already victims. And for death, itself...I must once again quote Romans 14: 8: 'If we..."<p>

Gideon paused as he spied Petunia sitting in the front pew. She was asleep, dozing as if she were a bored child stuck attending church with her parents. The reverend cleared his throat and tapped the microphone with two fingers, creating a loud noise that woke Petunia right up and irked the rest of his audience.

"Sorry," Gideon told them, before he finished his sermon, "...'If we live, we live for the Lord; if we die, we die for the Lord. Whether we live or die...we belong to the Lord. Thank you,"

Petunia stood up the second he was done and led the audience's applause for Gideon's sermon. Once again, he bowed as a sign of courtesy. "Reverend Green, everybody," announced Father Silver as he returned to the podium. Gideon shook hands with the priest, giving him a good, firm handshake. He walked off the platform and returned to the pews where Petunia patted the spot she had saved for him. Gideon sat next to her, but turned away from her and just put his attention elsewhere. Together, they sat for Father Silver's closing sermon, which lasted ten whole minutes before it reached its conclusion.

"You did an excellent job tonight, Father." Gideon complimented as the crowd thinned, leaving them and Petunia, who was standing at Gideon's side.

"Thank you, Reverend," the Father told him, "You did quite the job yourself."

Gideon grinned and said, "It's all for the man above, isn't it?"

"Sure it is, Gideon." Petunia commented; Gideon glared at her. She rolled her eyes and looked away until they remembered were they were and both smiled, though halfheartedly.

"We'll see you in two days, Father," was all Gideon told Father Silver before he and Petunia started to head out of the church, together but maintaining a sizable distance between each other.

* * *

><p>"Truthfully, I love Petunia," Gideon confided to the detectives, "But sometimes, I feel as if we're growing apart further each day...Of course, our faith doesn't look too kindly upon divorce so I'd like to make things work as much as possible."<p>

"That's understandable, Mr. Green, I mean, how long have you been married?" Gillian said.

"Close to twenty years." Gideon revealed to her.

"So, you went to Boddy's after that?" David asked to keep the ball rolling, changing the subject effectively.

"Well, after Petunia and I returned home to get ready, yes, we were. Although there were some...shall we say, certain disruptions before we arrived." Gideon recalled.

"Such as?"

* * *

><p>Gideon devoted his full attention to steering his automobile. Meanwhile, Petunia devoted hers to shifting through the different radio stations, trying to find some music to her liking. They had been to Bobby's residence before so it wouldn't be too long before they arrived. The main difficulty was trying to see what was ahead of him, even with his driving glasses and the headlights on Gideon had trouble seeing what was ahead of him. Petunia finally settled on a station playing an old song by The Association. A band Gideon hadn't heard in quite some time. Gideon took a brief glance at Petunia, who seemed content with the music at last. As he readjusted his focus onto the road, he felt a sudden grip onto his lower torso which was not his own.<p>

"Petunia, what are you doing?" Gideon asked as he felt Petunia fiddle with his belt.

"We aren't at Robert's yet, let's enjoy ourselves for a bit before the party." Petunia told him as she unbuckled Gideon's belt. She quickly pulled down the zipper of his olive-colored dress pants and groped his member through his knickers. "I'll do you, and then you can do me with your hands. I'm not going to do myself like the other times."

"Get your hand off of my appendage, Petunia." Gideon refuted.

"Oh, Gideon, we are married! Stop acting like I'm summoning the serpent from the Garden of Eden by wanting to give you a simple handjo-"

Gideon gripped Petunia's hand with his own and yanked it up, shoving it away roughly. She stared with wide eyes at him as he came to a stop on the side of the road. He pulled up his pants and zipped them back up. After he redid his belt buckle, he glared at her. She turned her other cheek to him, avoiding his stare. "It feels as if it's been eighty four years since we last consummated our love...When are you going to give a little?"

"Am I supposed to be moved by that pathetic exaggeration? We can talk about this after the party tonight. When we're home. Not when I'm trying to drive," was all Gideon had to say. He drove back onto the road and headed back on the path to Bobby's.

Besides Petunia's lone mutter of "That's that, then," the couple did not dare speak to each other. A thick and murky silence reigned between the two, only drowned out by the cheery song on the radio about a girl named Windy.

* * *

><p>"Thank goodness Bobby allows us to smoke in here," Petunia told Gideon as they strode together through the bustling crowd. "I swear I love Celeste, but I can't handle going outside every twenty or thirty minutes just for a cigarette at her parties just because she doesn't want her house to 'smell that way'."<p>

"You do have a point." Gideon agreed as he moved with his hands clenched behind his back.

"Of course I do," was all she had to say just as they approached the host of the party himself.

"Oh, hello!" Bobby greeted, seemingly taken by surprise. "Gideon, Petunia...It's certainly a pleasure to see you two again."

"The pleasure's all ours." Petunia assured him.

"How have you both been? I mean, with the politics and the campaign?" Bobby asked.

"We've been very busy," Gideon began to answer, "Only a few days ago, I taped an appearance on...what is that one show called again, Petunia?" Gideon asked, struggling to recall the name.

"The Madame Rose Show, dear." Petunia answered for him, her voice slightly weary.

"Oh, I was just speaking to her earlier, she's here tonight too." Bobby shared.

"What a treat for you, then." Gideon complimented just as someone else walked over to where he was with Petunia and Bobby, who laughed at what Gideon had said.

"Would you care to introduce me to these friends of yours?"

"This is my old friend, Reverend Gideon Green. Gideon, this is my fiancee, Miss Sabrina Scarlett." Bobby introduced. Gideon could not helped but feel bewitched by Sabrina's beauty, all perfectly encased in a deep red dress.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Scarlett." Gideon told Sabrina rather quietly while trying to give her his best firm handshake despite his awe of her, "I was just having a chat with Bobby about a recent stop on my campaign tour. I assume you know about my campaign to be elected for Mayor of Detroit?"

She nodded, "Of course, Reverend, whenever I watch TV, I can't go five minutes without seeing one of your commercials."

He couldn't but smile upon knowing that she knew who he was, charmed as one could be. He was about to speak to her again, until he heard Petunia insert herself back into the conversation, "Aren't you going to introduce _me _to your fiancee?"

"My mistake, Sabrina this is-"

"Petunia Peacock. It's a pleasure," Petunia finished for herself before she set her drink down to give Sabrina a hand shake of her own. She didn't seem as excited to be talking with Petunia as she did with Gideon. "Would you two care to tell me how you met and fell in love?" Petunia demanded to know from the couple.

"It's kind of a funny story," Bobby began to share.

Sabrina finished that thought, "Yeah, but one that'd be better not for a party like this, but for dinner. Just the four of us."

Petunia scoffed at that, "Don't be such a pussyfoot! Enlighten us with a tale of romance rooted from lust to love."

It was then that Gideon finally nudged Petunia to stifle her down a little, "Don't egg her on, Petunia. We can always schedule a dinner with her and Bobby for another night."

Petunia glared at him, then at Sabrina. He could tell his wife was making the other woman feel uncomfortable, because her next words were, "I need another drink anyways."

"But you already have a drink!" Petunia called out in a particularly shrill tone, "You are such a hog; Did you know you were choosing such a _fine hog_ to marry when you proposed, Robert?"

Sabrina skipped away. Gideon stared at her as she ran away from them; Petunia just laughed. "What's the matter? Cat got her tongue?"

"She's a...shy bird." Bobby claimed.

"So it seems...Hm." Petunia commented, before splitting away from the two men herself.

Gideon and Bobby stood by themselves, silent until Gideon asked Bobby, "Bobby, I know you're a busy man, but may I request a longer conversation with you later in the night?"

"Of course," Bobby assured, "Would you care to do it in the study upstairs? Just for a more stable environment?"

"That would be delightful," agreed Gideon.

* * *

><p>"What did you want to talk to Mr. Boddy about?" David asked the reverend after he had finished speaking again.<p>

"Just for some support to my campaign, of course" Gideon told him.

Gillian glanced over at David's notepad and saw what he was writing, 'Asking for shill/bribe'. She wanted to shake her head at David's blunt thoughts, but thought better of it. She looked back at Gideon and this time asked, "Alright. What did Mr. Boddy have to say, then, when you when you asked him to be your latest...advocate?"

* * *

><p>"Cigar?" Bobby offered once they had entered the study room. Gideon took one out of his hand and raised it to his mouth while Bobby struck a match. Bobby lit first Gideon's, then his own. He flapped his hand until the light went out and dropped the burnt match onto a black ashtray placed on a table next to a leather chair. Bobby sat down in the black chair, while Gideon remained standing.<p>

"Thank you for this treat; I rarely treat myself to a good cigar these days. Smoking is more of a vice than a virtue." Gideon admitted to Bobby.

"Why don't you quit entirely then?" Bobby asked.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Gideon said with a soft laughter, "Petunia smokes like a chimney on Christmas Eve, I can't quit with her around."

Both Gideon and Bobby chuckled at that comment. Gideon sighed and got on to the point he wanted to make, "Bobby, what I want to know is...will you support me? My campaign, I mean?"

Bobby took a drag of his cigar and blew a nice big cloud of smoke out, a successful pause for effect if Gideon could say so himself. "How exactly would I be supporting you?" Bobby asked the reverend.

"Any way in which you see fit," Gideon implicated.

"...Well, then, the answer is no." Bobby decided.

Gideon flared up despite himself, "What do you mean no?"

"I mean, no, I'm not going to give you any money nor am I going to endorse you."

"Why not, if I may ask?" Gideon requested to know, starting to pace despite himself in the study room.

"Politics...are not my forte. I prefer to remain unbiased in the eye of the public, so I don't unintentionally influence anyone's decisions during any potential business dealings...I hope you can understand that, Gideon."

The reverend thought over Bobby's words while continuing to pace and smoke. He considered asking if he could have permission to talk to Sabrina about this, but that would have been inappropriate. Finally Gideon just leaned over and while putting out his cigar in the ashtray, told Bobby, "Alright. I apologize for wasting your time, Bobby."

"You didn't waste my time, I just don't feel comfortable with supporting you other than going to the voting poll and giving you my support there," Bobby clarified.

"Of course," Gideon said. He turned around and marched out of the study room. Before he left completely, though, he made sure to turn around and tell Bobby one last thing, with a warm smile:

"See you later."

* * *

><p>"And did you, in fact, see him later?" Gillian questioned.<p>

"Oh, I did." Gideon answered, "But not in the way I wanted...I left him alone for no more than, I'd say, five minutes. I just went to a wash room. That time was when I assume, well, when the murder occurred."

* * *

><p>Gideon flicked his wet fingers into the sink. He looked into the mirror above the sink as he grabbed a white hand towel left hanging on a wooden towel rack. He left the wash room just as he couldn't help but over hear a peculiarly loud noise. It sounded like it was coming from another part of the house, though it still caught Gideon's attention. However, before he went to inspect, he checked the study room where Bobby had been. The room was unoccupied, but there was still something that managed to catch Gideon's attention.<p>

"What's this...?" Gideon asked himself as he eyed a monkey wrench. It was a common one, cheap. What made it so interesting to Gideon, however, was the blood that was drying on it. Gideon almost picked it up for a closer look, but his intuition advised against that choice. He exited the study and shuffled over to the railing above the main floor where he saw exactly what had happened.

"...Oh dear God." He muttered.

Gideon anxiously shifted down the stairs, luckily not being noticed among the chaos. He watched as Sabrina cried over Bobby's form. He looked through the faces, trying to spot Petunia if he could. She wasn't with the mass of people surrounding Sabrina, so where was she?

"Over here, Gideon."

Gideon looked and saw Petunia standing by the end of the stairs, smoking another cigarette.

"What happened to Bobby?" Gideon needed to know.

"He fell...And from the looks of Miss Scarlett's crying, he's dead." Petunia said in a calm manner.

"Oh God...Who did this?"

"I don't know, Gideon."

Suddenly, an abrupt thought crossed Gideon's mind, "...Petunia, we need to get out of here right now."

"Why do you want to leave, Gideon?"

"This could be bad for the campaign. The future mayor of Detroit at the scene of a murder? That could break me."

Petunia nodded and agreed with her husband, "Let's go." The two of them split from the party, showing themselves out just as Sabrina latched onto one of the other people at the celebration and continued to cry.

* * *

><p>"Finally, we left and returned home, where we stayed for the rest of the night. Lucky for us, no one did see us there. So news of our presence never did come out...until now, of course." Gideon finished.<p>

"We're the police, not TMZ, we won't be telling the public you and your wife were there. It'll just be us who know." Gillian promised.

"Us and the Sergeant, of course." David made sure to note.

"That's fine." Gideon responded, in such a casual manner that it stuck out as odd to Gillian. Though she couldn't figure out for what reason specifically.

"Do you actually have any idea of who killed Mr. Boddy, though?" David asked Gideon impatiently.

"Sadly, I don't. I just found that monkey wrench in the study; it could have been anyone really." Gideon answered.

David and Gillian looked at each other and nodded, seeming to be on the same page. David wrote down one last sentence and clicked his pen, flipping the notepad over to signify the end of his notation. But he wasn't done yet: Instead of ceasing his action, he leaned forward and asked, "Are you certain you don't know who killed Mr. Boddy? You were pretty honest about other things, I mean you even told us that thing about your wife trying to jump your bones."

"I'm _certain _I don't know who you're looking for, and if you're implying that I am lying to you, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Gideon insisted.

"My partner wasn't implying anything," interjected Gillian.

"Well, I'm going to have to ask you _both _to leave now." Gideon repeated.

David and Gillian both stood up at Gideon's request. David walked away first, with Gillian following. She quickly shuffled back to tell Gideon one last thing: "Do me a favor, and tell Jasper that he pours a damn good bourbon."

* * *

><p>"Again, I must ask you: What part of that made any sense?" Gillian asked David as they walked out of the estate.<p>

"Well, we know it still could be Mrs. White who killed Mr. Boddy?" David suggested as they walked. The two stopped suddenly, as they had nearly collided with Petunia, who was finally returning home after her earlier departure.

"Watch where you're headed constables." Petunia warned the duo sharply as she pulled off one of her navy blue gloves.

"Sorry, Mrs. Peacock, we're just going over what your husband told us." David told her.

Petunia raised an eyebrow, "And what exactly were you talking to Gideon about? I was never told why you two were dispatched here in the first place."

David looked over at Gillian, giving her an expression as if to signal, 'Should I tell her?'. Gillian thought it over and gave him the nod of approval. David told Petunia the truth, "We thought your husband may know something about the murder of Bobby Boddy."

The sides of Petunia's lips curled into a smile after David told her this, "Is that all?" She asked. Her smile growing. "Well, go back to your Sergeant and tell him to call me so we can schedule a sit down. I'll come over just as soon as I can fit it into my busy schedule."

"And why should we do that?" Gillian asked.

Petunia pulled off her other glove before she answered that question, "Because I know who murdered Robert," she said with a smirk that was soft and wide.


	6. Episode 5: Blue Velvet

Petunia's eyes snapped open.

She sat up in her bed, clutching the green quilt next to her heaving chest. She had awaken at the behest of a sound a rapping, or perhaps a tapping against the window. Or perhaps even inside her house. Petunia switched on the lamp next to her side of the bed. Gideon was still asleep, laying in the direction opposite from her. That man was such a heavy sleeper, he could probably sleep even if someone pointed a gun to his head. Petunia patted Gideon's shoulder before she stood up in her powder blue negligee and snatched a robe from inside her closet.

Sliding the silk robe over her arms, Petunia left the master bed room and slowly marched past the other rooms on this level of her estate. Passing by the dangling chord that allowed access her attic, her bare feet began to creak down step by step against the wooden stairs. Petunia could only hope there wasn't anyone waiting downstairs for her and Gideon with bad intentions. The Snows had once had their home invaded and from what Saffron had told her, it was quite a traumatic experience. One Petunia hoped would never happen to her and Gideon. When her feet touched the floor, she looked around. No one in sight so far.

"Jeeves? Did you come early?" Petunia whispered as she crouched through the house. She sought something to protect herself with, any weapon would do. Petunia's shaking hands gripped the handle of a stone ashtray and raised it up over her head. She would have to remember to tell Jeeves or Magenta to clean up the dirty ashes on her rug later in the day. She turned her head in every direction, expecting to see some thug waiting in the corner for her. One room was clear, then another, then another. After inspecting the kitchen successfully, she turned her attention to the front door. She inched towards it, bit by bit until her unoccupied hand made contact with the door knob. She opened the door and found...

An empty, black void where a criminal should be.

Petunia sighed a breath of relief. She leaned over and flicked on the light to the garage, to make sure she hadn't heard anyone try to steal her precious Mercedes Benz or Gideon's BMW. She knew Gideon didn't put much thought into his automobile, but Petunia's Mercedes was one of her most favorite things and she would make anyone who tried to harm it pay dearly. Once again, in a stroke of luck, both cars remained there, just as they were. Excellent. Petunia almost turned away before something caught her eye, or the corner of it rather...

She minced out of the home and stopped in front of the door way, staring at the front of the garage. She remained silent for a minute before dropping her ashtray to the ground. Her mouth opened and a wordless shriek rang through the night. Then another before she fainted at the sight of what someone had left on her garage.

In the largest letters, sprayed in dark paint, were the words, '**YOU'RE NEXT**'

* * *

><p>The door to the ultramarine Mercedes Benz swung open carelessly, allowing a delicate pair of cerulean stilettos to touch the pavement. A lit cigarette dropped onto the pavement and one of the heels crushed it as if it were an ant at a picnic.<p>

Petunia did not move until her new right hand man was by her side. He raised his hand, covering her pale blonde hair with her own azure parasol. Taking the umbrella with one hand and clutching her pocketbook with the other, she stood up from her leather seat. She clicked the button on her set of car keys to lock her vehicle's doors. That would hopefully ensure the thugs of this city wouldn't try to steal her precious Mercedes while she was with the good police. Petunia smiled as she strut to the police station, her bodyguard following close behind. Just as he was paid to do.

"Sergeant Grey?" Petunia called out to the older policeman, standing at the front entrance. Presumably to wait for her.

He nodded, much to Petunia's pleasure, "Right this way, Mrs. Peacock," he told her. The police man pushed the door open for her and her bodyguard to walk on inside. He entered after them, closing the door softly.

"Where will you be taking me for our little conversation?" Petunia asked the good officer, who was now leading her to the room.

"Actually, I'm afraid I have to hand you off to two of my detectives for this, I'm only overseeing this case." Gil explained to Petunia.

"Oh, that's fine you're handing me off to your constables," Petunia told the policeman, chuckling afterward. "I'm so pleased now that I no longer have to feel guilty about throwing together this completely substandard outfit! I happen to be much more pulchritudinous than this ensemble would lead you to believe. "

Gil didn't quite know how to respond to that; he reluctantly shook his head as if he agreed with her point. He remained quiet as he showed Petunia to the room where Gillian and David were already waiting. Before she left him, she made sure to grab the sergeant's hand for a handshake. One hand, readying holding her parasol, held his in place. The other, containing her pocketbook, was placed on top of his with both her palms downward. "A pleasure, Sergeant," she told him before leaving him behind. Her bodyguard following close behind.

"Good day, constables," was her greeting to the duo. The bigger man pulled out the chair for Petunia, letting her sit down."Give me a light, Carmine," she asked of her bodyguard. Just as ordered, Carmine retrieved Petunia's monogrammed lighter along with a cigarette. He tucked the cigarette into her lips and lit it up for her convenience.

"You really shouldn't be smoking in here," scolded David.

"My tax dollars helped pay for this building, the least I should be able to do as an American citizen is be allowed to have a cigarette." Petunia brushed away.

"Right...Well, Mrs. Peacock, when we last saw you, you said you knew who had killed Mr. Boddy." Gillian recapped.

"I do know who murdered Robert. But there's a much more important matter at hand, constables," Petunia urged the detectives before turning to Carmine, "Hand me my phone, I need to show them the images."

Carmine obediently retrieved her blackberry and handed it to Petunia, who in turn gave the phone to Gillian. "I awoke in the middle of the night and found _that _on my garage."

"You're next.'" Gillian read aloud, studying the message left in blood red spray paint.

"If you two don't do something soon, the killer will come for me! She'll give you another death to investigate like you're doing with Robert's!"

"_She_? Who do you think murdered him?" Gillian asked in confusion.

Petunia rolled her eyes, "Isn't it obvious who committed the crime, constables?" She took a drag of her smoke and blew it out, "It was none other than Robert's very own wife-to-be, Miss Scarlett."

David's eyes went wide at this revelation; even Gillian was intrigued by this claim. David had to ask, "How do you know Miss Scarlett killed Mr. Boddy?"

"Because I witnessed Robert's murder. She killed him, hid the weapons and sprayed crocodile tears everywhere she went to cover it up," Petunia shared, "And frankly, if it's taken you this long to figure it out, I have to question your qualifications to serve as two of this city's constables."

"Sure," was David's response.

"Mrs. Peacock, we can debate about job qualifications another time." Gillian tried to push aside, "We're here for one purpose: An investigation. You're here to help us, not give a critique."

"Oh, but everyone's a critic," Petunia commented sardonically, "But fine. Let me babble for you for a while like Gideon did. It's only fair that I get my turn, after all. Since you've already spoken to him, I'm sure you both know that our day began with a little game of croquet with the Silvers and the Meadow-Brooks. After that, I went inside with Saffron and Mari..."

* * *

><p>Saffron and Marigold laughed together as Petunia reached for the cork screw and shoved it into the tip of a bottle of red wine. Turning the screw, she had opened the bottle in mere seconds. Petunia poured the beverage into three glasses and handed them out to her friends.<p>

"Do you always let your husband win at these games?" Marigold asked her.

"I beg your pardon?" Petunia nearly barked.

Marigold snorted, "Nice try, Petunia."

Saffron chuckled, "Don't act so coy," she advised her friend, "Mari and I have known you practically since we were bouncing babes on our parents's knees. You've known how to ace a game of croquet since you were only seven."

Petunia thought over Saffron's words and sighed before admitting, "Ladies...It's not the _worst _thing to let your husband win even if your skill is vastly superior to his. Sometimes he needs a little booster shot to his ego to keep going."

"My husband doesn't," Saffron dismissed before sipping some wine.

"And your husband surely doesn't, but that's just _our _opinion, Tunie." Marigold said with a sly smile.

Petunia _hated _it when people called her that pet name. She would have objected to Marigold's 'opinion', but unfortunately for her, her rebuttal was stopped by the three husbands striding into the house.

"And what were you three musketeers up to?" Saffron asked playfully.

"Just discussing business," Gideon told the three women.

"I'm certain you were, Gideon." Petunia patronized. She looked back at him and saw Malcolm and Saul both grinning. "So certain," she made sure to add onto her statement.

"Shouldn't we get going now?" Saul asked Saffron, whom nodded.

"Do we really need to get going?" Saffron challenged.

"I think we do, we have to get going." Saul demanded.

Saffron sighed and reached out for her glass. She chugged what remained of her red wine in one go and then stood up. "_Now_ we can get going," she told her husband.

As the Snows showed themselves out, Gideon turned his attention to Petunia and asked her, "Don't we have to be leaving now, as well?"

"In a bit, sit down Gideon." Petunia told her husband sternly. Gideon obeyed while Malcolm cozyed up to Marigold, who distanced herself from her husband.

"What time are you two coming to Robert Boddy's party tonight?" Petunia asked the Meadow-Brooks.

"Quarter after eight." Malcolm answered.

"That early?" Petunia scoffed.

"Oh, Tunie, you know Mal has that thing of his where he has to be places quarter before or quarter after." Marigold explained. She leaned forward to Petunia and Gideon and placed a hand over her left cheek before she whispered, "I told him again to get checked out by a doctor but he thinks he's fine."

"Wrong hand, Mari." Malcolm muttered.

Marigold made an awkward face, but eventually just groaned in response. "Oh, you know something's not right with your head, you just won't admit it. Better you hear it from me than from someone at the looney bin you're gonna be hauled off to!" She sneered, before gulping down wine.

"Well, Gideon and I should leave." Petunia interjected in her own attempt to both dispel tension and bring the focus to herself. "I scheduled a massage appointment for us at home and I'd like to return early in case they arrive early...I don't want them to take anything from our house."

"Oh god, not that ancient history again." Marigold bemoaned.

"I am very proud of my home, Mari." Petunia insisted.

"Our home." Gideon added in.

"Yes, _our _home, thank you Gideon." Petunia corrected herself before she stood. Gideon followed his wife's example and the two moved over and leaned in to hug the Meadow-Brooks goodbye.

"We'll see you two there." Malcolm shouted after Petunia and Gideon as they headed out.

Gideon opened the door for Petunia to exit just as she couldn't help but overhear Marigold bellow, "DON'T SHOUT SO LOUD!"

* * *

><p>"As I said, we returned home for our massage appointment," Petunia recalled. She paused to take a puff of her cigarette before carrying on, "I'll spare the full details of what happened in between our stay at the Meadow-Brooks's since I'm certain Gideon already has, lord knows that man loves the sound of his own voice."<p>

"Gideon did tell us most of what you two had done that day," Gillian confirmed, "But we'd still appreciate at least a brief recollection, just to make sure it checks out with what your husband shared."

"Very well," Petunia sighed as she put out her cigarette on the desk. David opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted as she asked, "Another, Carmine." The tall bodyguard handed her a replacement and lit it up as he had done with the first. She blew out another cloud of smoke and said, "Where was I?...After the massage appointment concluded, I ordered Jeeves and Magenta to ensure our outfits were perfect tonight and Gideon and I left. We made a few stops around town before we settled down at church."

"For your husband's sermon, correct?" David inquired.

"Correct," Petunia muttered, "I swear, you two are lucky neither of you are married to a reverend. I may be a woman of the Catholic faith but sometimes I _swear_ Gideon makes his sermons the equivalent of thirty minute sleeping pills on purpose. Probably to compensate for the real god he worships being a green, merciless god."

"You're certainly honest," observed Gillian.

"My husband's always said that lies are a gateway into Hell," Petunia commented.

"He told us that too." David mentioned.

"We returned home to make our last preparations for the party. I was in my room, getting help from the maid. She's an overwrought one, that Magenta...But if only you could have seen how beautiful I looked that night. The dress I ordered from Balenciaga was just _stunning_," Petunia resumed recalling.

* * *

><p>An old Paul Mauriat record spun in the background as Petunia pulled the sleeves of her dark blue dress over her arms. Her maid zipped up the back like a good little girl. "Brush my hair, Magenta," Petunia demanded as she adjusted the dress to cover as much of her chest as possible.<p>

"Of course, Mrs. Peacock." Magenta agreed quietly. Petunia held out a steel blue hairbrush; Magenta took it and started brushing out Petunia's long blonde hair. As the young maid took care of her hair, Petunia eyed her reflection in the mirror. She stroked the beautiful necklace she wore. It weighed down on her neckline quite a bit, but the beauty of it was worth the weight. Sapphires were always Petunia's favorite jewel, not for any deep complex reason. The blue jewels just shined the best in her eyes. In Petunia's mind, not every little thing had to have some deep Freudian explanation.

"You can stop now, Magenta." Petunia instructed. The maid stopped and dropped the hair brush. Petunia sighed as she reached down to pick up the brush, placing it on the counter

"You need to learn to suppress your fear," Petunia chastised of the maid. "I can't have you dropping every little thing just because I intimidate you. If that had been some of my china, not the type Gideon and I use regularly but the _good _china, you would have been fired immediately"

"I...I'll try," was all Magenta mustered to say.

"Good," Petunia muttered to her before she turned to admire her reflection in the mirror. "Now tell me: Who's the prettiest girl in town?"

"You are?" Magenta tried to answer in a bluntly uncertain tone.

"You're goddamn right," was all Petunia had to say; she was ready to go to Robert's at last.

* * *

><p>"Then, off we went, without a hitch," shared Petunia.<p>

"You sure about that?" David asked playfully.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Petunia demanded to know.

Gillian nearly punched David for what he was referring to. Instead she clenched her teeth and just told Petunia that, "Your husband didn't say the same...That's all."

"Of course he didn't," Petunia nearly laughed, "That's so like him to _embellish_."

"What do you mean by 'embellish'?" Gillian pressed for clarification.

"Have you not listened to a word I've said, constable?" Petunia nearly snapped, "I am the one you should trust, not him."

"And that doesn't sound _exactly _like what someone with guilt would do." David taunted.

Gillian looked as if her eyes were about to pop out of her skull and fly at David; Petunia had an expression like she was about to put her cigarette out on his cheek.

"..._Anyways_," Petunia resumed, "Gideon and I arrived at the party at eight thirty one, and the first person we conversed with was none other than Robert himself."

* * *

><p>"Oh, hello!" Bobby held out his arms to try to give quick embraces to Gideon and Petunia.<p>

Gideon gave him a warm pat on the back, while Petunia grabbed his hand and shook it in an uncomfortably tight fashion instead of a hug. He inched back and said, "...It's a pleasure to see you both again."

"The pleasure is certainly ours, Robert." Petunia assured him in a dry tone.

"How have you two been? I mean, Gideon, you have the politics and the campaign! And Petunia, you have-" Bobby began to say, before being cut off by the woman herself.

"I have the campaign as well, since I am Gideon's newly instated campaign manager." Petunia answered for him.

"We have both been very busy," Gideon affirmed, "Only a few days ago, I taped an appearance Petunia scheduled for me on this show...what was it again, dear?"

"Madame Rose's show." Petunia answered wearily.

"Oh, I was just speaking to her earlier," Bobby piped up, "She's here tonight too."

"What a treat for you, then." Gideon said, which made Bobby crack up rather loudly. While he laughed, Petunia glanced over as an angry looking black woman in a crimson dress marched over. Petunia recognized her: This was the woman Bobby had chosen to marry.

"Are you gonna introduce me to these friends of yours, or _what_?" Sabrina Scarlett nearly shouted at her fiance.

"This is my old friend, Reverend Gideon Green. Gideon, this is my fiancee, Miss Sabrina Scarlett," Bobby introduced. Petunia eyed her husband; he seemed as enchanted with this woman as her lover was. _Weakling_, Petunia thought to herself.

"I was just having a chat with Bobby about a recent stop on my campaign tour. I assume you know about my campaign to be elected for Mayor of Detroit?" Gideon asked. In that one ws if he wouldn't say the exact same thing to every person he and Petunia would interact with tonight.

Sabrina rolled her eyes, "Whenever I watch TV, I can't go five minutes without seeing one of your commercials. Of course I know, Reverend."

"Aren't you going to introduce _me _to your fiancee?" Petunia demanded, reasserting herself into the conversation.

"My mistake," Bobby said graciously, "Sabrina, this is-"

"Petunia Peacock. It's a pleasure," Petunia stated, cutting off Bobby once again. She set her wine spritzer down and shook hands with Sabrina, whose handshake was considerably limp. She looked at Petunia; shaking her head very subtly at Petunia's attempt to be cordial.

"Would you two care to tell me how you met and fell in love?" Petunia asked in her own attempt to break the ice.

"It's kind of a funny story." Bobby began to share.

"One that would be better suited not for a party like this,but for dinner another night. Just the four of us." Sabrina suggested, glaring right at Petunia.

"Don't be such a pussyfoot," Petunia insisted, "Please enlighten us with a tale of romance rooted from lust to love."

Gideon nudged Petunia rather roughly, making her wince and gasp softly. "Don't egg the woman on, Petunia, we can always schedule dinner for another night."

Petunia looked sourly at her husband, then at Sabrina, who seemed pleased with Gideon siding with her. "I need another drink anyways." Sabrina commented.

"Oh, but you already have a drink...You are such a hog!" Petunia laughed, before she leaned towards Bobby and asked him, "Did you know you were choosing such a _fine _hog to marry when you proposed to her, Robert?"

Sabrina ran off from the trio. Petunia couldn't help but notice both men watch her leave, with their eyes directed significantly lower than her own were. Now it was Petunia's turn to roll her eyes.

"What's the matter? Cat got her tongue?" Petunia asked darkly, snapping the two men back from their La La Lands.

"Oh, she's...a shy bird." Bobby claimed.

"So she is...Hm." Petunia muttered as she decided she had now had enough of Bobby and Gideon for now. Picking up her drink, Petunia went off to mingle with the others, maybe even see if Marigold and Saffron were around.

* * *

><p>"From the moment I met her, I knew there was something off about her," Petunia confided, "Little did I know that she would be capable of murder. It's a tragedy, really, what she did to Robert. But it's like my mother always said: The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."<p>

"What do you remember happening next? Did you see her doing anything else strange before the murder?" Gillian asked.

"What happened next was I sat with Marigold and ate for a bit," Petunia answered for the detective, "But then, after I went off to use the bath chamber, I bumped into an unexpected guest. I use the word 'guest' lightly."

* * *

><p>"Wilma?" Petunia asked as she stared at someone she had never expected to see again: Her old maid, Wilma White. Who was out of her maid uniform, for some reason beyond Petunia.<p>

"Hi...Hello, Petunia," Wilma said in a tone as meek as her demeanor.

"Wilma White...I thought I'd seen the last of you!" Petunia said briskly, "I didn't know Robert had hired you to be his help, good for you."

Wilma awkwardly smiled at her and insisted, "Actually, I'm the man's guest, same as you."

Petunia snorted loudly, "You just simply can't be Robert's guest...Although, looking at you now, I can see you made a pitiful attempt to create the illusion of being well off," she said as she scanned her poor choice in a outfit. She glanced behind Wilma and snapped her fingers, "Mari! Mari, come over here!"

Marigold came over Petunia's way; Petunia had to admit Marigold looked lovely tonight. She wore a turquoise dress along with wonderful golden hoop earrings that brought out the color in her brown hair. "What is it, Tunie?"

"Look who's here," Petunia told her, pointing over at Wilma.

"...Ugh." Marigold growled, "Isn't that the old maid you had working for you before-"

"Yes," Petunia interrupted with a shrill laughter, "Doesn't she look so pitiful?"

"Quite pitiful, in fact." Marigold agreed. She took a closer look at Wilma's ensemble, "I can't believe you're wearing that atrocious red dress.."

"Straight from a clearance rack at JC Penny's, no doubt!" Petunia giggled.

"And those dotty old gold shoes, my god, were you drunk when you dressed yourself by any chance? You look like how my husband's dirty socks _smell_." Marigold said. Petunia could barely contain her laughter at Margiold's clever commentary.

"Saffron!" Petunia called out to her other friend, who was eating at a nearby table. "Saffron, get over here!"

Her other friend marched up from her seat; she also looked lovely tonight, wearing a classy white dress and holding a matching pocket book. She took one look at Wilma and gasped, "Oh my god, Bobby invited Paula Dee-..."

Petunia and Marigold erupted with laughter at Saffron, who had realized her mistake all too late. "Oh...That's the maid that stole from you...right?" She tried to ask.

"Yes, yes it is." Petunia wheezed as she tried to stop laughing.

"Dear lord, would you look at these?" Saffron asked as she leaned in toward Wilma and gripped her hands by force. "These nails!"

"Are your fingernails always that dirty?" Marigold asked.

"Or have you been sticky fingered in Robert's home? As you were in own." Petunia made sure to interject.

"I have told you so many times, Petunia," Wilma spoke, pointing her finger at the woman in blue, "I did not steal a thing fro-"

"GET THAT FILTHY FINGER OUT OF MY FACE!" Petunia demanded, swatting Wilma's finger back.

Petunia, Marigold and Saffron all awaited a response from Wilma, who cowered like a scared little rabbit, "I am going to tell you one more time, Petunia: I am here the same way you are: As a guest. My husband and I are Mr. Boddy's guests."

Petunia laughed, "Oh, your husband is here too? I can only imagine what he must be like...a butler, perhaps. Or even a groundskeeper."

She turned away from Wilma, "Come on, let's go," she directed to her friends. They started to walk away, but Petunia made sure to let her former employee know one last thing, "If I see your husband, I'll make sure to have a chat with him. Make sure he knows that he's married to a _thief_."

* * *

><p>"And that was when I finished correcting old Wilma." Petunia finished with another guffaw.<p>

Gillian did not like the look David was giving Petunia right now, he looked angrier than either of the women had been at his sarcastic comment earlier. The female detective opened her mouth to ask her about what came next, but David spoke up first. "Do you know what you did was awful?"

"I told you constable, Mari, Saffron and I just corrected her. She shouldn't have been there in the first place." Petunia insisted.

"Why don't you just do the world a favor and take a class in _kindness_, you bitchy, botoxed shrew?" David finally snapped at her.

Petunia slammed her fist down onto the table so loudly, David jumped backward.

"ALL I DEMAND IS YOUR RESPECT!" Petunia cried out, smoldering at the man, "Or else I will sue for what you have said, I will sue! And my lawyer will make a _meal _out of you, he's looking to add a third floor to his house and the payout from a lawsuit will serve as a just method of payment."

"Dove, leave _now_." Gillian ordered.

David stared at her, inhaling air deeply. He looked back at Petunia, still furious. He exhaled sharply and said, "I'll show myself out."

"Let me take you out." Carmine spoke up, marching forward to help usher David out. Gillian and Petunia were left alone now.

"After I _corrected _Wilma, it seemed as if the dramatics would never cease as I headed towards the denouement of the night." Petunia continued on.

* * *

><p>"You..."<p>

Petunia turned her attention over to another woman, one who was hunched over the table with all the drinks set out. Her short dark blonde hair was a mess and her orange dress was torn a little. Petunia gave her one look and then turned around.

"YOU..."

She turned back around and saw the other woman stumble closer towards her, too drunk for her own good. She reached out and gripped Petunia's sapphire necklace, trying to pull it towards her.

"My jewels!" squeaked Petunia.

"_YOU...__**BITCH.**_"

"Don't you dare speak to me that way!" Petunia warned, following her warning with a hard slap in the face, watching her stumble back like a typical drunkard.

"I see you for exactly what you are," the other woman hissed quietly at her before moving back towards her, "I see you for exactly _what you are_."

"Don't touch me, I'll sue!" Petunia barked at her.

This defense made the woman in orange laugh, "Go ahead and sue...Lock me up, throw away the key...Won't change the fact that you are an _evil bitch_."

Petunia would have slapped her again, but help had finally arrived in the surprising form of Sabrina, along with Madame Rose herself.

"Mrs. Peacock, let me take care of my friend. I apologize for what she's said...and probably done to you," Sabrina told her in a rather annoyed voice.

Petunia recoiled in horror, "This woman is your friend? I am frankly quite shocked that you call this creature your friend."

"Believe me, I am too," was all Sabrina had to say. This apparently angered her friend to the point where she grabbed a glass off the table and threw it at Sabrina's dress.

"Why do you treat me like I'm a child?" Portia whined.

"I'm treating you like a child because you insist on acting like one."

"I am fifty nine years old...When you are going to realize that?"

"I know your age, just like everyone knows you are drunk as a skunk. You need to leave."

The other woman snickered, "You want me to leave? That's _rich_," she said as she marched towards Sabrina, "At least my family doesn't hate me for that very reason. Or is there another reason they still call you their..._Scarlett Sheep_."

Petunia looked at Sabrina's face: She made such an effort to appear strong, but now there were _tears _starting to stream down her face. Actual tears. Her friend had aimed for a bullseye and hit it. "You're drunk," was the only rebuttal Sabrina was able to muster up.

"Oh, shut up," complained the other woman. She tried to move herself and then slipped and fell onto the table. Petunia gasped as she did, turning to Sabrina.

"If you want to be a grown up, Portia, you can do it yourself. You ain't my problem anymore." Sabrina declared before departing in anger and upset. Petunia looked at Portia, who was rubbing her head. She stumbled past Rochelle Rose, who was in the midst of arguing with a man Petunia didn't recognize personally.

"...You decide to repay it by spending more time by yourself and your friends than with me. And to top it all off, you gave me this _goddamn_ _black rose_!" Rochelle snapped, tearing a corsage off of her wrist and throwing it in his face. She gripped her long pink dress and marched away.

"Quite the party, isn't it?" Petunia said to her acquaintance.

"Oh, don't even get me started," Rochelle told her in a huff, "Why don't you tell that to Colonel Mustard over there? Bringing a black rose into this house without any idea of what he's done."

"What do you mean?" Petunia had to ask.

"Black roses are known to bring in two things with their presence: Edginess and evil. That man brought a whole lot of bad juju into this house with that shitty 'gift'." Rochelle explained.

* * *

><p>"With Madame Rose's explanation ringing through my head, I decided that I needed to find my husband," Petunia told Gillian, "Maybe it's because Rochelle is a more convincing psychic than any other I've come across, but I took her words with the utmost seriousness."<p>

"So, does this mean your search for him was what led to you witnessing the murder?" Gillian asked.

"It means exactly that, constable." Petunia confirmed before she finally gave her recount of the murder itself as she remembered it.

* * *

><p><em>Despite my honest implications of my husband's dishonesty, he is not a killer. He may be a liar, a hypocrite, a sell out even. But do any of those equal murderer? I don't think so. I know the whole truth; I am the only living witness to the murder of our dearly departed Robert...besides the murderer, of course. It all started after that interaction with Madame Rose, I searched through the party for Gideon, but couldn't find him.<em>

Petunia stood by herself as she stuck another cigarette into her holder. She flicked her monogrammed lighter, struggling until it managed to produce a light. The meek yellow light roasted the tip of her cigarette and she took a greedy puff. She glanced at the stair case near the end and raised her eyebrow. Gideon and Robert, heading onto the second floor? Petunia shifted her eyes to both sides and scurried behind them.

_I tried to follow them incognito. But, as you should know by now, a woman of my caliber can't help but attract some attention to herself. I'm certain if you ask any of the others present, they can support my claim._

For every three steps Gideon and Robert took, Petunia took one. Until they reached the level itself, Petunia just stood behind as the two conversed. She tried to listen, but the walls were packed with the noise and chatter from downstairs. Gideon and Robert shook hands and went their separate ways, Gideon making a turn to Petunia's left while Bobby continued to stride forward. Petunia felt an initial relief, although her intrigue still remained. Despite her best reasoning, she crept after Bobby, curiouser and curiouser as to where he was headed. She followed him until he stopped in front of one of the rooms, the door opened.

"...What are you doing here?" He asked.

"Come inside, Bobby boy."

_There, waiting inside Robert's study was the woman who would soon become his murderer: Sabrina Scarlett. I didn't see her, but I knew it was her voice. If you ever met Miss Scarlett, you'd know she has quite a lovely voice. One of the many tools at her disposal she has to entice weak men._

Petunia could only watch as Bobby entered the room, closing the door behind him. Petunia skittered after him and almost touched the door knob to test if it had been locked or not. She thought better of the instinct, however. Instead Petunia took a look further down and entered the room next to the one which Bobby and Sabrina were in: A lounge room. Petunia made sure to lock the door so no one else could enter and skipped over to the right wall, pressing her ear against the wall that separated her from Bobby and Sabrina.

_Lucky for me, the walls were paper thin. A sadly common feature of mansions like Robert's. It's why I had Gideon pay a contractor to make our own walls sound proof when we first bought our home. But that's trailing away from the point: I listened on as Robert and Sabrina had a lover's quarrel that escalated further and further._

"What do you think about Portia?"

"Portia? She's...she's a fine girl, Sabrina."

"No, tell me what you _really _think about her."

"What are you talking about?"

Petunia couldn't quite make out Sabrina's response initially, until she heard an increasingly loud and chilling cackle emitted from her.

"Oh, Bobby boy...give me your phone."

"What? No!"

"Bobby, be the gentleman you pretend to be and give me your goddamn phone."

Petunia pursed her lips as she heard a struggle between the couple. It went on until she heard a loud smack and a groan from Bobby. An uncomfortable silence followed, until that was broken once again by another dark laughter from the woman in the neighboring room.

"Just like I thought: You and that pretty little white girl. Behind my back, just like all the others."

"Sabrina, I...I don't know what to say...I..."

"Oh, you know _exactly_ what you want to say. You're just too scared to ask me to play the part of the dutiful housewife while you go out getting your dick wet."

"I'm sorry, I really am."

"Oh, shut up. I forgave you for Blanche, for Jade...I even forgave your sorry ass for what you did with Cherry in our bed, but Portia? My friend, Portia..?"

_They were both quiet after that. It was a longer silence than before and more than just uncomfortable. It was painful. If I was in that room with them, I could have cut the tension with a knife. But, as we've seen with Robert's body, Miss Scarlett did a good enough job cutting with a knife. One whole minute must have passed before the silence was broken for good._

"...You broke my heart for the_** last time**_."

Petunia's hand flew over her mouth as she heard a brutal whacking noise. Bobby grunted loudly, a noise of pain.

"Sabrina, stop, please!"

"This is no time for tears; You done cheated on the _wrong _woman."

Bobby screamed; Petunia backed up as something crashed against the wall separating Petunia from the fight she was eavesdropping upon. She scattered back like a mouse running from a cat. Petunia shivered as the quiet returned, but only for a second. Until she heard the sounds of Bobby forcing his body back from the ground.

_I thought that might be the end of the squabble...until the predicament took a turn for the grave_.

A gun shot rang out. Then another. And then another.

Petunia nearly screamed, but her hands stifled any noise from her mouth in time. Her fear was silenced from exposing herself. She clasped her hands tighter when she heard another shot from the opposite room. While her ears rang with the noise of the shots, Petunia ran to the door of the lounge. She unlocked it so she could escape while she could, or perhaps find a better place to hide. She opened it a peek, sticking her right eye out to see if the coast was clear.

Instead, she saw Bobby's bloody form stuttering backwards. Sabrina marched out in front of Petunia's line of vision. Bobby stumbled further and further away from Sabrina until he toppled over the railing and his body crashed his own party.

_ "__**OH NOOOOOOOO!**__"_ Sabrina wailed in an astonishingly fake tone before she ran away. Once she was gone, Petunia rushed out of the lounge and fumbled. She ran over to the study room and saw what had happened: Red blood was drying everywhere. Petunia picked up her dress and tried to mince over the carnage while surveying the damage Sabrina had done. On the floor was a bloody wrench, no doubt one of the weapons she had used against Bobby. There was one thing particularly peculiar to Petunia though: The desk had been left open.

Petunia took a peek and gasped when she saw a revolver, the revolver that one like herself could assume had been used to shoot Bobby.

All she knew now was that she and Gideon had to leave immediately.

* * *

><p>"Gideon and I found each other after the murder. And then, we did leave, thankfully, before we could be involved in a scandal." Petunia finished.<p>

"Thank you for...everything, Mrs. Peacock," Gillian told her as she wrote down the last of what she was told.

"If you don't believe me, I'll give you some advice," Petunia told her, "Get a search warrant and anything else you need and go to Robert's residence. Sabrina's revolver will still be there, hidden away in his study room. I doubt she's gone back and taken it away, she's probably either hiding in case she does plan to attempt to murder me next or she's halfway to Mexico or Canada by now."

"I'll see what we can do," assured Gillian.

Petunia smiled, "Be sure to thank Sergeant Grey for me, constable. And thank you for being much more understanding than your partner."

Gillian smiled back and stood up as Petunia did. Petunia took Gillian's hand and shook it firmly before both exited the interrogation room.

"Come on, Carmine, it's time for us to depart," Petunia ordered of her bodyguard, who was standing next to David. Of course, Carmine did as he was ordered.

"Nice outfit," David muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Petunia asked with a glare.

"I said, _nice outfit_." He spoke in a louder voice.

Petunia smirked as she gripped the ends of her blue dress, "Thank you, constable. It's velvet, something I reserve for substandard goings such as this," she explained before departing the police station at last with her bodyguard in tow.

"What was that about?" Gillian inquired.

"Eh, thought I might as well throw the old bat a bone before she left." David admitted.

The female detective punched the side of David's arm, "You are so full of shit," she told him with a small laughter. "Now come on, we need to go talk to Papa about this."

* * *

><p>"How do you feel now that we finally got ourselves a lead?" David asked Gil as he and Gillian sat after sharing what Petunia had told them.<p>

Gil didn't pay David and Gillian any mind, he just focused his attention on reading through what the written transcription of Petunia's recollection.

"I think we should just get a search warrant and go back there and investigate." Gillian insisted.

"But we don't know if Mrs. Peacock was telling the truth, not yet at least." David reminded her.

"Dove, Mrs. Peacock's been the only one who's pointed us to an actual lead. If we find the revolver there, we'll know that she was telling the truth. Not to mention Colonel Mustard and Reverend Green's recounts line up with hers."

"Mrs. White's doesn't."

"Remember that that's the same Mrs. White who will not budge and give us her full side of the story for some reason we still don't know."

"Alright." Gil spoke up. Gillian and David's bickering came to a halt as they awaited to hear what their boss had to say.

"I'm going to file a search warrant so we can search the mansion again...This revolver deal is a new piece of information we didn't know before and one that _is _important," Gil began to announce, much to Gillian's pleasure. He continued, "But we need more proof to indict Miss Scarlett...We need someone who can confirm her alibi is bogus."

"And who do you think we should seek out for that?" David asked.

Gil leaned towards the detectives, "We need to find Miss Scarlett's 'sister'; We need to find Portia Peach."


	7. Episode 6: Purple Haze

Gillian sat back down in the passenger seat of David's car. After closing the open door, she buckled her seat belt against her body and opened up the box of Dunkin Donuts she had run in to buy for her partner. "Just take one," Gillian advised.

David reached down and grabbed two on a flimsy napkin as he started to drive again. "Thanks for doing this," he said with his mouth full of chocolate frosted pastry.

"I still don't get why you insist on buying coffee at Starbucks, then getting your donuts separately here instead of just getting everything in one spot." Gillian couldn't help but interject.

"You want to know why? Because Dunkin Donuts coffee sucks, that's why," was David's answer.

The female detective shrugged as her partner slowed down as he parked his silver Taurus across the police station. When David had his automobile how he wanted it, he turned the ignition off and the two were soon on their way towards and inside the police station.

"Hey, gimme one of those!" Yvette shouted at David as he passed by her desk with the box of donuts. He popped the top of the pink and white box and the receptionist hovered her hand over the snacks before she picked out one with yellow frosting and green sprinkles for herself. "Thanks...and, by the way, you and Gillian got yourselves a visitor," she told the male detective.

"Who?" Gillian asked.

"Ask him yourself, he's right behind you." Yvette pointed with her silver press-on nail. David and Gillian turned around and saw just whom she was referring to: A man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a purple tweed suit.

He looked up and saw the detectives, and stood up and extended his hand to them, "Good morning, detectives, I'm Preston Plum. I'm quite a renowned profess-"

"You're Mrs. White's husband, right?" David asked.

Preston's face seemed to sink slightly, "Yes. Yes, you did talk to my wife. Come, let's take this into another room. I'd like to talk to you both without an audience."

* * *

><p>"So, why did you come here?" Gillian asked Preston.<p>

"Wilma told me a day or two after her questioning about being called down here. I actually debated over the pros and cons of coming forward to you with what I know about for a while," Preston explained, "I tend to needlessly over-analyze, being a psychologist."

"Doesn't everyone over-analyze something?" David commented.

Preston laughed, "No," he said in a particularly sharp voice "I just debated with myself for a while and decided to come today...I don't know why today of all days. Something just clicked...Have you found any clues as to who killed Bobby?"

"As of now, we have a prime suspect, but we need more evidence as to indict them," Gillian told the professor.

"I can try to be of some help with that," Preston told them, "Just tell me what to share and I'll give it to you."

"Well, when your wife met with us, she said she didn't know who Mr. Boddy was or how you knew him...could you tell us how you two met?" David started off.

"Oh, that's a good one," Preston complimented, "We met right near the end of August. I was speaking with one of my colleagues at a mixer. Ringing in the start of the school year. It was after the speech, when Bobby and I first crossed paths..."

* * *

><p>"So why should <em>you <em>commit yourself to getting a four year degree?" Professor Rusty Ruddy asked the crowd from the platform he shared with Preston. He turned his head towards his colleague, a signal for it to

Preston cleared his throat, "Because," he fumbled as he shuffled through his note cards, his notes for the speech written in a small print writing, "Because...One! You have a wide range of programs to enroll in, the opportunities are limitless. Two, our university tuition costs can come as low as ninety thousand a year," he said, realizing his mistake too late, "_nineteen_ thousand, nineteen thousand a year!"

Rusty cackled at Preston's expense, "Nice try, Plum, I'll finish this," he said as he put an arm behind Preston's back and shoved him firmly aside. He pouted as Rusty took over, but didn't try to fight him. It wasn't worth a fight since Rusty did have one thing Preston knew he lacked: Charisma. Preston just let him finish it out and applauded him with all the others when he reached the end, all with a crestfallen look evident in his eyes.

* * *

><p>"That was a wonderful speech, Dr. Plum."<p>

Preston looked up from the plate of bite-sized sandwiches placed on the small gray table. On the other side of the table was a man he had never seen before: Tall, grey-haired and wearing a sleek black suit. "It was wonderful, but no thanks to me. All the credit belongs to Professor Ruddy," insisted Preston.

"Do I call you professor or doctor? I never know which I should use."

Preston chuckled, "For all intents and purposes, I'm a professor. But I haven't seen you around before, so you can call me either."

"Bobby Boddy," he introduced himself, "And you caught me: This is my first time at the university."

"Oh really?" Preston wondered.

"Can you believe that?" Bobby laughed.

"What brings you here today? This is supposed to be a mixer...University staff, students, prospective students and student families only," Preston couldn't help but ask.

Bobby grinned, "I'm...an investor. It's just a coincidence I chose today to see what the money I gave to this school went to...From the looks of it, it was well spent, don't you think?"

Preston didn't completely buy Bobby's explanation, something about the way his eyes moved when he spoke. But everybody had secrets, if this man didn't feel comfortable explaining his motives, that was on him. "Gotcha, Bobby," was all Preston responded.

"Oh, hello," interrupted Rusty, who leaned in between the two conversing men for a snack. He grinned at Bobby, "And who are you talking with, Preston?"

"Bobby Boddy, investor." he repeated. The two shook hands and Preston started to slink away, knowing how Rusty was. Everybody loved talking to him.

"Professor Rusty Ruddy. Tell me what business brings you here, Mr. Boddy?" Rusty inquired.

"Well, until you cut us off, I was discussing business with your fellow professor, Rusty," Bobby told him, "But now, I think I'm just going to leave Professor Plum my card, so we can continue our conversation somewhere we won't be interrupted. After all, he is quite a renowned professor. One who deserves the time of day."

And with that, Bobby retrieved a little bone white business card from his pocket and dropped it into Preston's hand. He winked at the confused Preston, before he split from the two professors and departed.

"...Oh, you want me to call!" Preston realized too late.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure that out." Rusty murmured under his breath, before eating a small sandwich in one bite.

* * *

><p>"Where have you been, Preston?" Wilma demanded to know as soon as Preston returned home.<p>

"Wilma, I had the mixer today. I had to be there all day, don't you remember?" Preston explained to her.

"You never told me that," Wilma insisted, glaring at her husband.

"I wrote it on the calendar on the fridge, I left you a post-it note in the bedroom as a reminder, you should have even got a text message reminder too." Preston said in an attempt to defend himself. Wilma shook her head as she retrieved her white cell phone, flipping through it with a finger until she settled on something.

"So you did," Wilma muttered, she shook her head again and just insisted, "Well, you should have said it to my face, you're so forgetful that way."

"If you checked your phone, checked the fridge, you would have known." Preston insisted.

Wilma groaned. "Just call your son, Preston," she scolded, "He called me twice asking where you were and I had no answer all because _you_ have a shitty memory."

He sat down on the sofa as she marched upstairs and pulled out his purple phone, beginning to scan through his contacts for his son's number. Just as he about to press to call Peter, Preston felt something else in his pocket. He pulled out the card from before, Bobby's business card. He looked down at it and chose to click away from Peter's contact screen. Instead, Preston pressed in the digits of Bobby's phone number and called it. Preston waited, but got no response. Instead he directed to voice mail, where Preston left his message.

"Hey...It's Preston...Professor Plum, if you don't remember my name...I just wanted to take up that offer you gave me, you know? Talk business sometime...How's about a coffee or just drinks sometime?...My number should be logged, alright bye."

Preston hung up immediately, painfully self-aware of how awkward he sounded at the end. Hopefully he hadn't screwed up things with Bobby somehow. He had a sad habit of doing that.

* * *

><p>"Check," Bobby muttered as he moved one of his black pawns in front of one of Preston's white pawns.<p>

Preston drank out of his cup of hot chocolate as he thought over what to do next, "I have to say, thank you truly for taking me up on my offer for coffee," he told Bobby as he pondered.

"What are friends for?" Bobby said in a playful tone.

Preston pursed his lips as he chuckled, "We've only met twice and you're calling me a friend?"

Bobby gulped down some coffee loudly before telling Preston, "Preston...Professor Preston, I'm the type of guy who knows who I can and can't connect with. I can get a certain vibe from someone I can connect with, and I get that from you. We're going to be friends for a long time, Preston, I know it."

Preston didn't know what to say to Bobby, blushing a little even. He just focused down on the chess board until he made up his mind, moving a white castle piece down the board until it opposed Bobby's king along with Preston's own queen and rook. "Checkmate," Preston muttered, looking back at Bobby, "In thirteen moves."

Bobby looked down, visibly confused by this move. He slowly looked back up at Preston and started to wheeze out a low laughter, "Well, cheers to that," he said before his laughter increased. He raised his coffee cup and knocked it against Preston's violet mug, before taking another big gulp of the dark brown coffee.

* * *

><p>Preston paused in the middle of his reminiscing about his memories of Bobby. He stared aside the detectives and thought to himself, lost in his head.<p>

"...Professor Plum?" David prodded, wondering what was going through his head.

"I'm sorry, detective...Neither of you can just understand what it was like," said Preston.

"Would you explain what it was like to us?" Gillian requested.

Preston sighed. "I hadn't had a proper friend like Bobby in years...Acquaintances? Sure. Co-workers? Sure. And, of course I have Wilma...But a friend? Someone I could just talk with, without the fear of being judged...Someone I can just have fun with, someone that I'm not married to. Before Bobby, I can't even remember the last friend like that I had," he confessed.

* * *

><p>"Take a look, Professor." Bobby told him before he retrieved a little black box from his suit pocket. He opened it up and Preston's green eyes widened at the sight: A small ring with a large red jewel inserted. "It's a ruby," Bobby clarified, "Rubies are Sabrina's favorite."<p>

"It's..._big_," was all Preston could make himself say.

"She's my girl," Bobby told Preston after a quick drag of his cigarette, "She deserves the biggest, the brightest and the best."

"I had to take a loan from the bank just to get Wilma her engagement ring: All that for a single karat diamond." Preston confided.

"If we knew each other then, I'd have given you the cash for a good one. No strings attached." Bobby said.

"My hero." Preston couldn't help but respond; they both laughed at that.

"Hey, you wanna go have some fun up there for a while?" Bobby asked, pointing backward to the little booth in front of the bar's karaoke machine.

"Oh, no, no, no, no. Singing is my son's talent, not mine."

"Your son's a singer?"

"He has a band. He changes their shtick every month, Peter goes through more phases than a damn evolution cycle." Preston revealed.

"Well, your boy's gotta get that musical gene from somewhere, don't he?" Bobby suggested, "Come on, I'll get shots, loosen your nerves up a little."

Preston gulped as Bobby waved someone over to bring over some new glasses, feeling nervous over Bobby's insistence on drinking. "Stop over-thinking, Preston," Bobby told him as the glasses were filled with a white liquid, "I know you get paid to think and tinker and toil, but you gotta live. I hate to be a cliche, but have you heard of a little saying, it goes carpe diem? Live for the day?"

"Cliches are cliches for a reason, Bobby," was Preston's response. He took the white drink and shot it, coughing at the taste as he processed it. "This tastes like gasoline," he shuddered.

"Moonshine." Bobby smirked.

"You prick!" Preston laughed loudly.

"Come on, let's go hit that mike now!" Bobby insisted.

* * *

><p>"<em>It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you!<em>" Bobby shouted into the microphone, stopping to take another swig of a beer bottle.

Preston dipped his microphone down like he'd been performing for years and pointed over to Bobby before he sang, "T_here's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do!"_

The two men wailed together, "_I bless the rains down in Africa! Gonna take some time to do the things we never had!_"

Preston started to shout out one of the ending riffs of the Toto song, but Bobby pulled the professor by his purple tie. He ran off of the stage with Preston in tow. Preston was initially disorientated, but staggered along when he got the hang of Bobby's rhythm. The two started to laugh as they ran out of the bar and outside, until they were standing with their backs against the smooth front walls.

"What _was _that?" Preston had to know as he caught his breath.

"Oh, my limo's here, so we had to scram. I hate to keep my driver waiting, you know?" Bobby explained with a mischievous smile. Preston nodded and followed him into the back of the limo.

"Where are we going to drive?" Bobby asked Preston.

"I can just take a cab home if you want..." Preston suggested.

Bobby rolled his eyes and insisted, "Haven't you gotten it in that pointy egg head of yours? We're _friends_. Friends don't let friends go unattended drunk in Detroit. Now, where do you live?"

"On Baum Avenue, it's the first white house on the block." Preston told Bobby, who then scooted over to tell his driver the instructions.

"He'll have you there in no time, pal." Bobby told Preston with the utmost confidence.

"I'll wait here until you go inside." Bobby assured as Preston walked outside of the car door.

"Thanks, Dad." Preston said, making both men snicker lightly.

"Hey, there could be someone waiting to chop your legs off at the door, I'm just playing it safe."

"The only person waiting for me is Wilma, if she hasn't already gone to bed."

"So you married an axe murderer? Good to know even renowned professors can make mistakes like us little people."

Preston and Bobby laughed hard at that joke.

"I'm hardly renowned, though." Preston murmured.

"Buddy, you _are _renowned...and don't you ever forget it," was the last thing Bobby said before he closed the black door of the car. Preston walked away and unlocked the door. Entered his home just as he heard the limo begin to drive off. The home was pitch dark except for the light coming from upstairs.

Bobby's last words swirled through his head as he marched upstairs. Was he really worthy enough to be _renowned_? Was Bobby just making another joke? Or was he the first person to tell him he was good enough in what felt like an eternity? All he knew for sure was that Bobby Boddy was truly an enigma.

* * *

><p>"Now that you know our origin story, I'll get to what led Wilma and I to be at his other house the night of his death." Preston told the detectives.<p>

"We're the ones asking questions here." Gillian reminded Preston.

"...So, he just invited you right?" David asked after a momentary pause.

"Correct," Preston affirmed, "He mailed an invitation. I still have it up on the fridge too, next to one of baby pictures of my boy that Wilma keeps up. On the day of the party, I woke up and Wilma had already left to go have breakfast with Peter, I was downstairs, about to message Wilma a reminder when who else calls, but Peter himself?"

* * *

><p>"Hello Pete." Preston greeted to his son, holding his phone up to his ear.<p>

"Dad, I'm in a real pickle." Peter told him.

Preston groaned; another call from his son, another request for something. Probably money, knowing the boy.

"Don't do that, I haven't even told you what my problem is," refuted Peter.

"Tell me what's your problem then."

"Mom wouldn't give me a couple hundred dollars and I wanted to know if you could."

Rubbing his forehead, Preston thought over what Peter had told him. "Why wouldn't she give you the money?" He had to ask.

"She said I had to wait until you give me my next allowance, but I need the money now. The Slumber Party Massacres need a new bass guitar for their music to be heard."

"Well, okay," Preston reluctantly agreed, "There should be more than enough to cover it. The last time I checked we had four hundred in the account, just don't tell your mother, Pete."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dad!" Peter gushed in that syrupy sweet tone he always used whenever one or both of his parents gave him what he wanted after a hold out. "You're the best! I'll call you after I get the new bass and you can hear us play, okay? Bye."

He hung up. Preston didn't mind, in fact he had to admit he was relieved it was this short, the longer conversations when Peter wanted something tended to get ugly. He was a good kid though, regardless of how he and Wilma tended to spoil him on occasion. He had a clean record, a two year degree and was the self-proclaimed 'den father' of his group of friends, keeping them together when things got out of hand. Or so he heard from Peter himself. Truthfully, Wilma was closer to Peter than he was, he was usually more the one to go to whenever Peter wanted easy money out of someone or a ride in case his car wasn't working.

Maybe his feelings of a lack of connection with his offspring were the reason he had such an interest in the developmental area of psychology.

Preston curled up on the sofa with a text book in his hands. He leaned over and grabbed his glasses and placed them over his eyes and began his latest adventure in reading. No matter how many times in many different books he read about it, Harry Harlow's animal testing experiments to see which mother they would go to would always fascinate Preston to no end. All of them going to the mother figures with padded clothing instead of the bare ones.

"Preston, I need to ask you something!"

Preston peeked over the pages of his book and saw Wilma, glaring at him for whatever new reason she had to do that. "Just a minute," he told her quietly.

"Did you hear me, Preston?" Wilma nearly shouted to demand her husband's attention, "I need to talk to you."

"I'm not deaf, Wilma." Preston told her as he set down the book.

"That's a shocker," she commented.

"I heard you the first time. You know I'm always a sucker for texts on developmental psychology."

"We don't have any money left, Preston." Wilma told him straight forward.

"Excuse me?" Preston asked, obviously shocked.

"Do you know anything about that? We should have at least a hundred and fifty left. I was going to use it for our plans tonight."

Preston could hardly believe what he was hearing, he had only checked their bank accounts about a week ago. He shook his head and, not wanting to tell her about their son's request, told her, "I guess we're out of money...I'm sure I told you that, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't." Wilma insisted.

"I hope I did and you forgot," Preston said wearily.

"Well, I'm just happy I already had your suit dry cleaned for tonight before you conveniently 'forgot' to tell me we're out of money." Wilma noted.

"You got me a suit?" Preston asked in a confused tone; Wilma looked at him with disgust and moseyed on up the stairs to the second floor of the house. While she was away, Preston turned over his book and couldn't help but sneak in a quick read. Looking back off the back when Wilma returned, with a bag over her shoulder.

With flourish, Wilma tossed the suit onto the other end of the sofa, "That suit which, believe it or not, you're going to wear for the party at your friend Mr. Boddy's house, you remember, right?"

He did remember, his mind was so wrapped up in money and what he was reading that he lost focus. "I thought that was tomorrow night." Preston said without much thought.

"No, it's tonight. You're the one who told me, I thought you, for once in your life, could remember something since you told me about it first."

"I'm sorry." Preston muttered to her.

Wilma rolled her eyes at his apology and sneered at him, "Please just put the suit on and I'll met you here later, I'm going to go get myself together for tonight, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed.

* * *

><p>"But then, of course, came the calls." Preston explained.<p>

"What calls did you mean?" Gillian requested to know.

"Oh, first it was Peter, calling to thank me for the money. Like I said, my boy is good at keeping his word. But he roped me into spending almost an hour listening to him perform with his band. If you ever wanted to hear a three minute Beck song turned into almost ten minutes of wordless noise, you know who to look for," Preston started to answer, "And then came one of my co-workers, Dr. Brown, asking me about my lesson plans and then Professor Ruddy called about more university-related matters...I just couldn't catch a break until the very last minute. I could have always suited up during the calls. But I feel like that's rude to the caller, if you can understand that. Then again, Wilma couldn't understand that."

* * *

><p>"Preston, you gotta get dressed!" Wilma commanded at Preston, who had finally been able to sit without his phone ringing for all of three minutes. "The party starts in ten, on delay, on delay!"<p>

"I'm sorry, Wilma. I...didn't know it was so late," Preston fibbed halfheartedly.

"Let me repeat: Are you _kidding me_? You are such a goddamn idiot sometimes." Wilma wagged her head, glaring at her husband.

Preston reached over and grabbed the bag with the suit. He moved to the bathroom opposite of the stair case, just as Wilma barked, "Just get changing!"

Inside the bathroom, he unzipped the bag and began to change out of the clothes he was currently wearing and into the suit one piece at a time. First came a white tank top underneath it all and then a heliotrope-colored dress shirt, which had more buttons than Preston liked. Even the sleeves had buttons you had to do up, he found it utterly ridiculous. Sliding a royal purple tailcoat over the shirt, he picked up a pair of trousers the same color as the coat and pulled them over his slightly hairy legs. The trousers were tight, but a fit. After attaching a pair of white cuff links, all Preston had left to attach was th e one little thing he always struggled at.

"Wilma...I need some help!" Preston stammered out.

"Ugh, what's the matter now?" Wilma asked with visible exasperation.

Preston paused for a moment as he took in his wife's new appearance: Her silver hair had been put up and looked sleek. She wore a wonderful and familiar red dress, overall Wilma just looked beautiful. Better than he did, that was certain. "I..I can't get this bow tie done," he told her.

"You are such a child," Wilma groaned as she stepped behind Preston and gripped the bow tie and started to do it for him, "You always have to get me to do this, why can't you learn how to do this yourself like a man?"

"Mine always come undone, yours are just better than mine." Preston admitted just before his wife finished the tie.

"Here you are, nice and tight." Wilma moved back and examined their reflections, "You certainly look dapper, don't you?"

"I guess, but nowhere near as great as you." Preston said to Wilma.

"You really think so?" Wilma asked in disbelief.

"Anyone would be a fool not to see how beautiful you are," he told her sincerely. He leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek; she blushed and sighed happily.

* * *

><p>"After she helped me finish dressing up, that was when we left and went to Bobby's party," Preston continued to recount, "When we arrived, things were fine. At first."<p>

"Did your wife tell you about what happened with Mrs. Peacock?" David had to ask.

"Yeah...Wilma disappeared for a while to get something to eat and I figured, while she was busy, I could do something for her. Then Mrs. Peacock approached me, making all sorts of accusations."

* * *

><p>"Um..Excuse me?" Preston asked as he raised his fingers and tapped his fingers on a shoulder.<p>

"You're excused," Madame Rose told the professor as she turned around, "What would you like, Preston Plum?"

"My name is Preston Pl-," he started to answer before realizing she already knew his name. "I...I know you must hate having people ask you this, Ms. Rose, but-"

"I'll sign something for your wife," the psychic finished for Preston. He looked stunned as she picked up her pink dress and led Preston over to a corner of the main hall with a guest book laying down, a black pen placed next to it. She flipped through the guest book and tore off part of the page. "How big of a fan is Wilma?"

"How do you...She told me she thinks you're the best television personality since Oprah," answered Preston.

"Oh, she's right about that," Madame Rose nodded, giggling as she wrote down on the paper. "Here you go, Preston: Autograph and a little message to Wilma from the madame herself.," she said as she folded up the paper for him.

"Thank you!" Preston smiled, putting the paper inside his suit pocket. Madame Rose smiled back at him and walked away, making sure to pick up her dress before she did it.

Not only did Preston successfully obtain an autograph for Wilma from Madame Rose, but he could tell her that she was a very kind woman as well. He felt proud of himself for how well that had gone. He turned around and stopped as he was now faced with another woman. This one was tall and slender. She looked worn out with her dark blue dress as she asked him, "You wouldn't happen to be Wilma White's husband, would you?"

"I am." Preston answered.

"Good. The name is Petunia Peacock, your wife used to work for me." Petunia told him.

"My name is Preston Plum, I'm...I'm a renowned professor," Preston told her, taking a stab at reciting what Bobby always called him.

Petunia rolled her eyes, "Renowned, sure," she muttered before she told him, "I just came to tell you that your wife has been lying to you."

"Excuse me?"

"Your wife is a thief: She tried to steal a precious family heirloom from me, my father's marble candlestick to be exact. I caught her red handed in the middle of the act. My husband and I fired her immediately afterward."

"That doesn't sound like Wilma." Preston refuted.

"She must be quite a skilled liar then," Petunia said pointedly,, "In addition to being a thief of biblical proportions."

"I think I'll go ask my wife for her perspective on your claims." Preston told her, heading off in search for Wilma, to get some answers as to whether Petunia was telling the truth or not.

* * *

><p>Preston leaned his head onto his fist, propped on the table by his elbow. "I'm certain Wilma had to have told you what came next..."<p>

"She did include the fight you two had," affirmed David.

"...I swear, I didn't mean to make her angry, I just...I just don't know, I guess." Preston murmured, "She just thinks I'm some absent-minded jerk...but I remember everything."

"Well, you've been able to tell us events from almost three weeks ago, I think that counts for something." Gillian commented.

"Thank you..." Preston said quietly, "I just wish she knew that."

* * *

><p>"Just leave me be and have the night of your life, Preston."<p>

Wilma put a hand over her mouth and clenched her eyes shut as she wept. Preston studied her closely, wondering what to say, what to do that could help her understand...

"Look, Wilma," Preston began to tell her, "I understand exactly where you're coming from...Do you think I want to play this game? This game I've already lost because what? I don't have enough money in my bank account? Or because I only have one bank account and not three plus a dozen in Switzerland? Do you think I want our son to have to go through the same horse shit we've had to? Working every goddamn day since we were teenagers? Seeing these people, seeing Bobby and his fiancee, it inflames my inferiority complex too...but we can change all of this, Wilma. We have an in, we _can _belong. Because, what are we going to face going back there? Petunia Peacock spreading some lies and slander about you that she probably made up to delude herself from the fact that money can't buy her happiness and basic fulfillment? Stay with me, Wilma, stay with me. We'll go back and have a good time...What do you sa-"

"Shut up."

Preston stared confused, "Excuse me?"

Wilma's face flared up as she began to scream, "Shut up, shut up, shut up, _shut up_! Just stop, stop talking! You are blind _and_ insane! My god!"

"I am _not _insane or blind." Preston refuted.

"I am an absolute failure, Preston! I don't belong here, I don't belong _anywhere_!" Wilma cried.

"You belong with me, don't say this." Preston tried to tell her.

Wilma stared at Preston in silence. He reached out to try to touch her face. She swung her fist and punched him right in the eye. Preston toppled over and clenched his damaged eye. He stared up at Wilma, tears in his eye as he realized just how angry she was. Without saying another word, Wilma fled the mansion and left Preston alone to tend to the damage inflicted upon himself.

* * *

><p>"Do you know where your wife went off to after that?" Gillian asked Preston.<p>

"I assume she went outside. I just stayed inside and went back to the party." Preston admitted.

"Since you don't know where your wife was...Do you think there is any chance she could have had a role to play in Mr. Boddy's death?" Gillian inquired.

"Oh, no...no, no...Wilma did not kill Bobby. My wife may have an occasional mean streak, but she is not a killer." Preston insisted.

"If you don't know where she went off to before Bobby's death, we have no choice but to suspect your wife. That, along with Wilma, herself, refusing to give an alibi as to where she was at the time of the murder along with another alibi that implicated her..."

"Oh?" Preston's interest perked, "And who implicated her, huh? Was it Petunia Peacock?"

"Actually, it was Colonel Mustard," answered David.

Preston's mouth dropped and an uncharacteristically shrill laughter rang out, "Colonel Mustard? As in Mort Mustard?"

"Dove, ix-nay the ame-nay ropping-day." Gillian whispered to her partner.

"If you believe _anything _Mort Mustard has to say about my wife and I, well I have some news for you: He's not who he seems to be." Preston shared.

"What do you mean?" David asked.

"You both really don't know, huh," Preston observed, not being able to hold in more laughter, "I guess I'll be the one to tell you what our Colonel is really like. And boy, do I have a great scoop for you now."

* * *

><p>"What's wrong with your eye?"<p>

Preston saw no reason to hide his shame in front of the man in the gold suit. He dropped his hand and showed the swollen purple shiner his wife gave him. The man promptly escorted him away, taking him to a broken table with alcohol and glass shards everywhere. His helper reached out and grabbed a bottle of champagne, pushing it against the purple eyelid. "Press this against it, keep the pressure up."

"Thanks," muttered Preston.

"How did this happen?" He asked.

Preston gulped and scrambled to think of a cover up, "I was running after my wife. But Wilma was too fast for me."

Lucky for Preston, this man shrugged and seemed to take the bait, "Well, helping you is no problem. Mortimer Mustard, at your service."

"Preston Plum. Pleased to meet you, Mortimer." Preston introduced himself, the two of them shaking hands in courtesy.

"Oh, just call me Mort, everyone does! That or the Colonel."

"Oh, are you in the army?"

"Used to be, but I still love the title."

"Well, I am quite a renowned professor myself," Preston told Mort with a confidence strange to him, "Perhaps you may know of my work? I'm the head of the psychology department at Wayne State University."

"Can't say that I have, Professor..." Mort replied as he glanced over both sides of Preston, "Say, you wanna get out of here?"

"And go where?" Preston asked.

"You're smart, there's a library around here we can spend some time in. Let's chill out, have our own little party." Mort suggested to him.

"I don't see anything wrong with that."

* * *

><p>"So what stuff do you like to read about?" Mort asked as he flipped aimlessly through the pages of an old black tome.<p>

"I'm a psychology professor...I like to read about psychology." Preston answered in a dead pan voice as he scanned over an assortment of books

"I'm not one for dense stuff like that. I like stories, myself," Mort shared, "When I was a squirt, Greek mythology was always my favorite."

"Oh, you like reading about gods and monsters?" Preston asked.

"I like reading about heroes," Mort clarified, "One thing about me? I learned heroes didn't exist at a young age. What you get when you're raised by a brute who treated you like a punching bag and a mom who wasn't interested in stopping it, lest she become his new scapegoat. Stories were what I had until I enlisted to try to be my own hero. To be like how I imagined Adonis and Hercules were."

"Man, that's complex." Preston commented.

"Man, you don't know the half of it." Mort laughed.

Preston looked back down on a book about survival techniques as Mort popped open another door, "Shit, you have to check this out, Professor," he called out to Preston. The man in purple looked down at the section he was reading about how to survive a 'live burial', and closed the book. He stood up and followed the colonel inside and grinned.

"I didn't know Bobby kept a billiard room," admired Preston. The room was brown with walls a lighter shade of black than the rest of the place. In the center of the room was a pool table, a bright green table supported with a fine brown wood. Preston looked over at Mort, who was fiddling around with a black and silver jukebox. Preston moved next to Mort just as a record dropped down and the needle moved over it.

"Hope you don't mind some purple haze." Mort said as Jimi Hendrix began to play through the speakers.

"Not at all." Preston said. Mort moved over the pool table and gripped two pool sticks, tossing one over to Preston, who fumbled and dropped his. Preston bent over and retrieved it just as Mort made the first move of the game.

"Truthfully, I haven't played much pool ever." Preston confessed to the colonel.

"Hell, let me show you how," Mort insisted, moving behind Preston. He let Mort adjust his form until he saw fit, which left him bent over the green pool table. Mort put his arms around Preston's upper torso and held the professor's hands as he aimed the stick for the white ball. Preston, with the help from Mort, made his move and knocked the white ball against the others, knocking a purple ball and a blue ball away.

"I did it!" Preston said with a new sense of excitement. He turned over to Mort and started laughing, the two shared a high five and cheered. They fell silent for a moment, staring at each other quietly with the only sound coming from the jukebox.

"Well, I guess it's your mo-"

Mort gripped his new acquaintance's head and pushed his lips onto the professor's.

Preston would have jumped back if he didn't have Mort's tongue wiggling its way into his mouth. He didn't know what to do, staying limp as Mort's hands gripped at his brown hair and pushed him forward. The smaller man's head spun as the guitar exploded out from the record player while Mort pushed his lower torso against Preston's. Preston moaned despite his attempt at not giving into the temptation. He gave in and started to press his tongue into Mort's mouth. Mort's arms reached down from Preston's head and down his body. One arm was wrapped against the man's back, pulling him closer to him, and the other groping his butt through his trousers.

"Oh Jesus..." Mort moaned between kisses.

"What are we doing...?" Preston murmured as he tried to pull away from Mort.

Mort pulled him right back with the arm draped on his back, "Come on, Preston, you're like me, I can tell. Rochelle told me I'd find love tonight...and I have," he told Preston before he moved in to kiss Preston again. The two men's tongues swirled around, Mort's exploring places in Preston's mouth that no one had in years. Preston didn't fight as Mort gripped his trousers and undid them, letting them fall down to his knees. The colonel flipped Preston around and pulled down his boxers, exposing his bare butt and legs to the other man.

"...Stop..." Preston muttered quietly.

"Spread your cheeks, professor." Mort growled, before planting a kiss on the back of his neck.

"_STOP_!" Preston demanded. He turned around and pulled up his pants, "I'm sorry, I must have led you on...I have a wife and a son, if...if I didn't have a family that I loved, I'd go through with this. But I can't...I can't."

Mort stared at him, his formerly content face twisting into disappointment. Preston redid his trousers just as a loud crashing could be heard outside. The professor and the colonel ran out of the room and back into the main hall, where a crowd was already gathering.

"What's going on?" Mort asked as he and Preston made their way through the crowd. Quickly, they both saw exactly what had happened:

"Bobby..." Preston uttered in shock. He and Mort stood still, until Bobby's fiancee herself ran down and shoved Preston away from the crowd to get to Bobby. His back slammed against the wall as he watched the scene, staying silent as his brain tried to process the death of his friend.

* * *

><p>"Wow," was all either detective had to say to Preston's latest admission.<p>

"If you want, as the kids these days say, some 'receipts', I've got them for you. He's been sending me text messages describing what he wants to do with me." Preston clicked a few buttons on his cell phone and slid it over to the other side.

David picked up the phone and held in front of him and his partner as he scanned through some of the messages.

"Jesus." Gillian mumbled as she skimmed through the messages with David.

"Okay, we get your point." David told Preston before he slid his phone right back to him.

"Good," Preston said, "I hope you realize now that my wife is an innocent woman. If anything, Colonel Mustard is the suspicious one. Trying to throw her under the bus, probably for what he thinks is a chance to be with me."

"Some people would do anything for love, Professor Plum." David commented.

"This gives me an idea..." Gillian interjected, "Since you're a psychology professor..Would you mind giving us a little insight into the mind of a killer?"

Preston grinned, "I've studied the science of the sociopath and the psychopath before, tell me more."

"Our prime suspect is Miss Scarlett, you think she's capable of murder?" David interjected, getting in on what Gillian was trying to do.

"Oh, that's a whopper," Preston muttered. "Everyone is capable of killing when pushed to whatever their extreme may be."

"Wonder where we've heard that before," Gillian couldn't help but mumble to David.

"But I don't think Sabrina killed Bobby...The stories Bobby told me, she'd have to be one skilled sociopath to fake those feelings." Preston told the detectives.

"So, you're saying you don't think she's our killer?" Gillian asked.

"Maybe, maybe not. I never personally met and sat down to talk to her myself. I could be psychoanalyzing Bobby's rose-tinted perception of her, instead of the real Sabrina Scarlett." Preston clarified, "I've already told you everything I know though. Your time with me is done. I have to go home anyways, get ready for work."

Preston stood up and held out his hand, "Thank you for your time, detectives," he thanked graciously. He shook hands with both David and Gillian and showed himself out of the room.

"You think that was worth it, Gill?" David felt the need to ask.

"Well, we're not much closer to solving this," Gillian answered, "But we do have some new information, so I don't think it was a total waste this time."

"Then we're on the same page." David smiled.

"Gillian! Dave!"

David and Gillian were startled as Yvette burst into the interrogation room unannounced, clutching onto the doorknob and the wall with a frenzied strength. "Could you try knocking next time, Yvette? Sheesh." David told her.

"Oh, shut up, I come bearing important news," she explained.

"And what's that?" Gillian inquired.

"Since you two had your phones shut off while you talked with the professor, Gil called me. He found Portia Peach at some daytime house party and he's bringing her down to the station right now." Yvette revealed to the detectives.

"That is important news." David commented.

"Told ya," Yvette couldn't help but laugh, "Well, come on you two. Gil said he was just about here, let's go see Miss Peach in!"

The receptionist left the duo alone, but they quickly scrambled to follow her to the front of the station, standing behind Yvette's desk along with a surprising assortment of others. They all stared eagle-eyed as the doors swung open. Gil marched inside and by his side was none other than Portia Peach...

"Oh my god," muttered David at the sight of the woman who allegedly called herself Sabrina Scarlett's 'sister'. To put it simply, she looked like she had been rode hard and put away wet. Her blonde hair was everywhere, her dress stained and reeking of schnapps and her face was flush. She stared at everyone with weary, sullen eyes and leaned her head onto the shoulder of Gil's gray uniform.

"Papa, let me help you with her." Gillian offered.

"Nope," Gil refuted, shocking his daughter. He turned to the group and instructed, "This time, you two can give yourselves a break.."

"She's mine," was the last thing they heard Gil said before he escorted Portia away from the preying eyes of the group in the front of the station.


End file.
